Tag Archives: depression

Baby Steps Toward Mental Health

This tiny tablet is the first step of the next stage of my search to find mental wellness. (How sad is it that I kinda love the color?)


Those of you who also suffer from mental illness may recognize that little pill as buproprion, an off-brand of Wellbutrin. This is the second time I’ve been on this particular medication, but last time it was also the only antidepressant I was taking. I eventually had to switch off of it because it made me feel like I was coming out of my skin. Now, it’s been added to my psychotropic cocktail as an augment to the escitalopram I’m already taking in order to boost my psychological energy. Less than 24 hours being back on the Wellbutrin and my skin is already a little twitchy, my head feels like it’s on fire, and my eyes feel like they could just come tumbling out of my head at any point if I turn too quickly. (But! I’m actually getting things done, and that’s not nothing.)

And still, I’ll take that over the sense of despair and despondency that has clung to me for more than a year now.

I have, in the past year, been the closest to suicide I have ever been in my life. Doing battle every day with feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing eventually takes its toll. The sense of isolation wears on you, grinding away little bits of who you are over time. I’ve been close to giving up more times this year than I can count. Early in the year, I even resorted to cutting — just shallow scratches with a razor blade; I’m not a complete masochist — my hands and arms. I know. It’s not terribly common for a white male in his mid-30s to start cutting himself. But it allowed me to deal out, in small doses, the kind of punishment on myself that I felt like I deserved. It was a short-lived habit, but I’d be lying if I didn’t still have days where I want to cut on myself some more. The pain and heat from those cuts gave me a measure of control over the way I felt and therefore had a paradoxically therapeutic effect. I could stave off the worst of my depressive episodes by parting the skin on my arm — just a little bit — and give myself a tiny reprieve.

I’ve been spiraling for months. The counseling I was in during the first half of the year helped — until I had to back out of it because it was becoming difficult to keep appointments due to increasing busyness at my new job. Literally all the energy I had every day went into my job in an effort to keep from losing this one, too, so the subsequent exhaustion at the end of every day made it easier to justify to myself making poor decisions in my home and farm life, decisions that have negatively impacted my family and my relationships with those around me.

Hence the reintroduction of Wellbutrin into my life. Two very close friends encouraged me earlier this week to visit my family doctor again to see about modifying my medication. Yes, the Wellbutrin still makes me feel odd and a little manic. But after the apathy of the past year (and more), this is far preferable. Per my doctor’s instructions, I’m also working on getting in to see both a psychiatrist, for long-term maintenance of my medications, and a clinical psychologist, because sometimes talking about your troubles with someone who can be objective is a solution, too.

I’d be lying if I said I wanted to do any of this. I hate that any of it is necessary, that I can’t just fix myself and be done with it. But I can’t, and I need help from people more equipped to keep me on my feet. I’m nervous and scared, but maybe also a teensy, tiny bit hopeful, too. Just the fact that I’m writing this down at all is an improvement. I haven’t felt like writing much of anything for more than a year. As much as the Wellbutrin makes my skin crawl, it does seem to give me a little more of myself back, and for that I’m grateful.

Little steps forward, people. Little steps.

When Melancholy Becomes Something Else

Earlier this morning, I sent this to Twitter:

It seems I spoke too soon because my mood has deteriorated since then. Tears have been threatening — and occasionally more than threatening — to spill over all morning. It’s frustrating and maddening because feeling like this is so completely pointless. It’s wasted emotion because it’s directed at… nothing. What’s worse is that it’s crippling and destructive, which makes it all the more scary to me because of the way it interferes with daily living.

Depression, when it’s not flattening my affect and overwhelming every single other thing I feel, makes me angry. I feel like I should be above this, better than this, able to mash down on this with ferocity and conviction, able to banish it to the darkest reaches of my mind whenever I like. And yet, I can’t. The damnable thing rears its ugly, vindictive head at the most unexpected — and unwelcome — of times and makes me think and feel things that aren’t actually true. Depression, among its multitude of other vices, is a liar. But even knowing this doesn’t make it any easier to shove aside. Depression also has teeth, and claws, and it has no problem sinking them into the soft, sensitive tissues of my brain and heart where it will hurt the most.

Therapy for me, then, is to write, when I can summon the strength to shove depression aside long enough to do. And so I write, exposed and vulnerable (which is scary in its own right), because it helps me process some of the things I’m feeling. Plus, it’s something I can actually do, instead of allowing the depression to simply have its way with me. So much of depression is about being passive and letting it do whatever the hell it wants to — which is why physical activity is also such good therapy. Activity, doing, is fighting back and refusing to allow the depression to win.

I wish there was more I could do because even doing feels passive when it doesn’t make the depression go completely away. The best I can hope for is survival and subsistence and hope that this thing will not kill me. My mind says it won’t, but my heart declares otherwise. Apparently depression is also cognitive dissonance.

This Weight Upon My Shoulders

Every couple of weeks or so I go through a spell of feeling like the weight of the world is resting solidly on my shoulders. During these times I feel tired and overwhelmed, certain that I’m doing too many things, that my hands are in too many projects. These are the times when I most seriously consider scaling back my activities and obligations in order to retain my sanity (such as it is), such as cutting out certain portions of our farm operations or dropping optional obligations to which I’ve committed.

Photo: rawlands under a Creative Commons license
Photo: hannah k (rawlands) under a Creative Commons license

For some reason, it always takes me a couple of days of this to realize that what I’m experiencing is a mild bout of depression. The thing is, it doesn’t feel like the deep, crippling depression that pushes me into suicidal ideation, and so it takes me longer to identify what’s going on. It also settles in slowly, a bit at a time over several days so that, at first, it simply feels like the kind of exhaustion born out of a busy lifestyle. To add insult to injury, this usually coincides during times of actual sleep deprivation, which is indicative that the two things are actually related. Either way, the feeling of being tired masks the fact that this is really the onset of depression, albeit a minor case. (That really soul-crushing depression typically only happens to me once or twice a year, the first always in January/February during the deepest, coldest part of winter, and once sometimes in the middle of the summer.) These smaller episodes occur more frequently — every two to three weeks — and are usually easier to bear up under, gritted teeth and shortened temper not withstanding.

These minor depressive episodes almost always pass within a couple of days, but while they’re here, this weight — it’s an actual, physical sensation — never leaves my shoulders. Identifying it and talking about it sometimes helps it abate more quickly, sometimes it doesn’t. At the very least, it is always something of a relief to recognize it when it’s happening.

Living with Depression

Dealing with depression is not an easy thing to do. I think I’m finally on the upswing of this latest bout — and thank God it only lasted a couple of days this time — but like usual it’s left me exhausted, weepy, and discouraged. I hate talking about it, especially as it’s happening because it’s such a burden — to me, to my family, to anyone around me. Talking about it rarely ever seems to help, so this time I clammed up, retreated into myself, and tried to stick myself into the deepest, darkest, coldest corner I could until it eased off. Even that effort bit me on the backside, to some extent. It was hurtful to my wife, and I think maybe even the girls felt it. It’s hard to be sure. When I’m in the middle of a depressive episode, I don’t see or notice much outside my own self-contained misery. I periodically open these little channels to outside information but only just enough so that I can fulfill an obligation here and there, and then I pinch it off again. And as I said, I don’t really talk about it. It’s hard enough just to live with, and through, it.

I don’t know why these depressive episodes hit me when they do. This time it could have been caused by a combination of getting over a head cold and the onset of colder weather plus the stress of work and school obligations. Or not. I’ve had more stressful periods in my life without a depressive episode, so it could just be that my brain chemistry got a little wonky for a couple of days. Whatever the case it seems to be passing now, and I have hope that this weekend may actually be reasonably decent. Even so, I know the depression will still be there, waiting. Even on my best days, I can feel it lurking over me like a specter, like a shadow in my mind. It taints all my best moments, just a little, because I know it’s not a matter of if the depression will come back, it’s just a matter of when.

My medication is a lifesaver, quite possibly literally. With the slight bump in dosage this past spring, I’ve been stabler longer, but even so, there are still these little blue periods, these low points in my mood that seem entirely unavoidable. I dread them, always, but have accepted that they’re just a part of life, part of doing business while traversing this mortal coil, if I may wax poetic for just a moment. I hate that my brain is such a mess most of the time, and one of my greatest fears is that I will pass this curse on to my children. I can only hope that if such a thing happens, I will be able to offer support and empathy to them and help them along through their own times of struggle.

And that’s it for now. I have other things to do, and I can actually breathe a little again, enough to get some of those things done, at least. I don’t talk much about my depression; it’s hard to know who’s actually willing to listen. But I can write about it, and in some ways that’s better, anyway, more therapeutic. If you’ve read all the way through this, then I thank you for taking the time.

March and Depression

Man, I feel blue today.

March is the hardest month with my depression. The combination of short daylight hours and long weeks of cold weather mount up to make these last few days before the spring equinox some of the hardest I face all year. It’s a little counter-intuitive at first blush, perhaps, since the days in March are actually longer than those in December.

But I liken it to a 12-month tidal cycle. It takes a while for all that water to change directions and to shift back toward my own shore. In December the tide is still out. We’re just coming out of the fall season — long days getting progressively shorter, warm weather getting progressively cooler, and I’m still feeling pretty good. Plus, it’s the holiday season, between Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year’s, so there are plenty of distracting family activities. January is still pretty good. Yes, I’m starting to feel the weight of all that water starting to slide back my direction, but it’s not too bad at this point. Winter is really just starting to gear up, and the weather, too, is only just beginning to feel the effect of the sun’s southerly slide toward the Tropic of Capricorn. January is tougher than December, but bearable. By February, though, it’s become apparent just how much of that tidal weight has shifted back this direction. It’s been more than two months of shortened days and cold, snowy, icy weather, and my moods are reflective of that. I spend more time feeling tired and depressed, and my mental focus struggles more than just about any other time of the year. There’s some solace to be found in the fact that Spring is right around the corner, but only some. Then March swings in, and the full weight of the tide has settled in. Yes, the days are getting longer. We’re starting to see pre-dawn light around 6:30 AM and the temperatures are more consistently up in the mid-30s to lower-40s (typically), but the effects of three-plus months of shorter days has piled up, and it takes time for the momentum of all that water to slow and start to shift away again. I have extended periods — a week, 10 days, sometimes more — of depressed mood, exhaustion, and mental haze, and even my daily anti-depressant isn’t enough to keep it entirely at bay. I can’t imagine how bad it would be without my meds. At this point it’s little comfort that the official first day of Spring is just a couple of weeks away. It’s a struggle just to get through a day, and it takes effort to find — and focus on — creative projects to keep myself distracted. Things will get better in a couple of months, as the tide starts to shift away again. Longer days, warmer weather make a huge amount of different — but right now, it’s a fight just to get out of bed in the morning and face the mountain of things that have to be done every day.

The cycle repeats on a roughly annual basis. Summers are better and easier. The extra sunlight boosts Vitamin D production, which has a noticeable effect. That’s not to say that I don’t have blue periods the rest of the year; I do. But they’re typically shorter and less intense. There is definitely a seasonal component to my depression, and this year it has helped tremendously that I now work from home with the ‘wall’ behind my desk being a huge picture window that faces east. I get more sun than I used to working in a windowless basement, but those dreary days in February still make it feel like I’m in a cage, sometimes.

I think this may be the first time I’ve talked about my depression in any real capacity here, and it’s not because I’m ashamed or embarrassed by it. It’s a medical condition, and I recognize that. I manage it with medications and by making some specific lifestyle choices. It’s something I’ve wanted to write about for a while but haven’t found the time or energy to do so before now. And I know there are many out there who similarly struggle with mood disorders. It’s more common than you might think, and I’ve been pleased to see the stigma of mood disorders begin to ease off in recent years.

So consider this me adding my own voice to the conversation. It doesn’t bother me in the least to talk about my challenges with depression. I’m happy to discuss my story and lend support to others as I’m able, and this seems like as good a place as any to present a formal invitation to have that discussion to anyone who’s interested.

A Rare Personal Post

I don’t like to post about anything personal, about things going on in my life, about my daily goings-on. Frankly, in the long-range scope of things, the details of my life are irrelevant and
inconsequential. Just this once, I’m going to break my own rule.

I am simply requesting prayer. I’ve been fighting depression and discouragement for… at least a few weeks. It is affecting everything I do and am about. I simply ask for intercessory grace on my behalf, especially as I find I am unable to do so for myself.

I expect my posts will be sketchy for a few more days, until I am able to push my mind through the fog and force myself to write again.

So, Why Do You Blog?

I admit it. I periodically suffer from bouts of despondency. Truth be known, I’m actually very moody and wrestle with depression on a fairly regular basis. (And the fact that my wife can put up with me day after day makes me love her all that much more.)

One thing that consistently plagues me when I hit these low points is to wonder why I bother to write, why I join in on different discussions, both over on my new forum and here on Xanga. I find myself wondering if, in the long-run, it even matters, does it make a difference, is this deep passion of mine to think deeply on the things that seem to matter and then to share that with others just so much wasted effort and energy. I guess I often grow discouraged at the
seeming lack of interest, especially in our generation, in the things that matter most, in learning what it means to live this life in a way that pleases God and draws others to Him. Admittedly, I struggle along from day to day, and more often than not find myself doing exactly the opposite of what I know I should be doing, and yet I feel this deep, burning desire to still try to get it right.

All of what I do here on Xanga and at Open Dialogue is with the intent of getting it right and seeing others get it right, too. I read what some folks write and wonder what it is they live for, what drives them, what motivates them. And for others, it is very clear what it is they live for, and it either causes me to rejoice or to feel great sadness.

I write here to teach myself and to share with others what I am learning, with hopes that we can work on each other to become more like Christ. I love the discussions here and at Open Dialogue and with the people I talk to. But I am also discouraged at how few of us seem to actually have this desire to reflect Christ.

I will continue to try to meet people where they are, to take part in their thoughts and discussions, to help them see Christ just a little better. In the meantime, I will also continue my own journey, writing here and at Open Dialogue, and hope that others find it worth their time to join me.

Why do you write? What do you hope to accomplish? How have you already been changed?


Exhaustion is the bane of my existence. When my body is weary, the whole of me suffers. My mind slags, my heart droops, my spirits resigns. Sometimes, I get depressed. Other times, I get irritatingly cynical. I always get apathetic, and when you want to walk the Christian life well, that is not a good thing. Oddly enough, I tend to think that the first line of defense spiritually is to take of self physically, including plenty of rest and healthy diet. Makes sense, then, why Christ spent so much time tending to the physical of those in need before tending to the mending and restoration of their hearts.


I think I need to lay off the coffee. Two full travel mugs, and I feel really edgy. Lots of caffeine like that does not agree with me, and since there is a caffeine allergy that runs in my family, I guess I am playing with fire.