Update: Why I’m Still Not Cancelling 2020
“I want to say something about depression, and I feel like it has to be profound. But I have nothing profound to say- I’m just sad.” In two quick instagram stories, one of my lovely followers summed up how I have been feeling since May of this year, which has been the cause of my unintentional hiatus. My relationship with depression, for about fourteen years, went hand-in-hand with being suicidal. The good news is, I have not had any suicidal feelings, fantasies or plans in almost a year! I have had literally two fleeting thoughts that were quickly dismissed. Because I had only ever experienced the pure agony of depression, I was quite slow to recognize the other side of depression, and to label it as such. I got to thinking one day, when I tweeted: “I am averaging ten good days a month!” And someone replied to commiserate with feeling depressed, and offer me their prayers. It caught me by surprise, because I did not know I was feeling depressed! I Caribbean parented myself into thinking: “what do I have to be depressed about?!” By all accounts, I have been beyond blessed this year. I am living at home; I am living with people and have not experienced total isolation at any point in time during this quasi-quarantine period. I live in a suburban neighborhood where I can walk my dog outside and get fresh air and not be afraid of contracting Covid just by going outside. I have a part-time job and got underemployment assistance to help meet my financial needs. I don’t have my own car, but I have reliable transportation. And my friends have lovely backyards and porches that I have gotten to visit occasionally to help further stave off feelings of loneliness. I have never been in the position where personally, my life is great, but I am dragged downwards by the weight of the rest of the world. It has literally never happened before. I have always experienced personal crises, and now that I am not, I feel as though I have less of a “right” to my depression.
Look at this smile! Could a depressed person smile like this?! Lmao
Captured by: Curts D’Amour
Towards the end of May it became apparent as protests and riots gripped the nation and my heart along with it, that being Black and the subsequent racial trauma that accompanies this classification, has a significant part to play in mental health as well. It was a really confusing time to be on social media and see the majority of my white followers care about police brutality for approximately one (1) business day. (To be fair to them, it was more like a week, but I digress.) I wondered with envy how they managed to remain disconnected from my reality for this long, because it sure is quite a burden to carry. In fact, the first fleeting thought of suicide came when I thought to myself: I would rather not live at all than to constantly be living in fear. Recently I’ve come to realize that my greatest fear isn’t even me or my family being killed by police, but the fact that even if I were, the odds of my family getting justice are slim to none (if Breonna Taylor’s record is any example) and that there are many people in my life who simply wouldn’t care. Specifically, the aforementioned white associates, colleagues, and acquaintances- those who have been most vocal about speaking out, unnecessarily, against riots and looting. It’s hard to feel like my life matters when I live in a world that sees that statement as something to debate, as if my worth as a human being is up for debate. I don’t think people realize how powerless and unimportant that can make someone feel, and the hopelessness that it can easily sweep you into. I kept thinking back to May, from the Secret Life of Bees, and how she strapped a boulder to her chest so she could drown herself in the river. “I’m tired of carrying around the weight of the world. I’m just going to lay it down now” (Sue Monk Kidd, the Secret Life of Bees). I read those words as a highschooler in 2010, but I wouldn’t really understand her point of view until a decade later.
Captured by: Curts D’Amour
I was spending about 16 hours out of every day asleep, looking for a means to escape reality, and otherwise feeling completely empty inside for the better part of the summer. It wasn’t until I noticed my appetite had completely forsaken me and my television watching had increased that I realized these chronic feelings of emptiness were in fact a more subtle form of depression. More manageable for sure, without the accompanying suicidal tendencies and a life that wasn’t in shambles, but still definitely a depression. (I only really binge watch tv of my own accord when I am severely depressed, normally I don’t watch tv or movies at all. Recently, I have been obsessed with The 100 on Netflix, and watching a tv show about the end of the world somehow made me feel better about the current impending end of the world; I can’t explain it!) There were other signs too: being unable to concentrate and get anything done (including writing letters to people, which I so thoroughly enjoy) being unable to remember or uphold my commitments (which led to missing therapy appointments and being late for work). Writing a blog about my feelings was damn near impossible because I effectively stopped feeling much of anything. I shut that down around the time that news of a humanitarian crisis in Yemen reached me. Being that I couldn’t care the appropriate or acceptable amount to still be able to function in my life, I somehow activated the kill switch. I stopped writing about everything, and all activism on my part boiled down to signing petitions and sharing infographics on instagram. My therapist gently suggested a couple weeks ago that it was time I reconsidered going back on medication. I instantly felt that same familiar pull of shame, coupled with feeling like I had lost all my progress, but the truth is Covid-19 has just changed the way I was living my life. Everything I was doing to help my mental health, the biggest one being travelling back and forth to New York on a monthly basis, is just no longer viable with the level of caution that it’s wise for me to exercise.
Captured by: Curts D’Amour
When I first started blogging this year I did so with the notion that “I can finally share my experience, because I am in a Good Place™.” I truly thought I was cured and had no intention of ever being depressed again. (This seems funny to write, but I really am constantly disillusioned when I cycle out of depressive episodes.) Realizing that I was in fact in a depressive episode- one strong enough to warrant taking medication again- seemed like a personal failure, and felt like it was something that would disqualify me from being able to blog about mental health, or attempt to help anyone else. It was this past week, when I was talking with my therapist about my grief for Chadwick Boseman dying that she reminded me WHY I started blogging: to edify, encourage and really just love on people that are hurting, who don’t feel seen or heard in their suffering. This year has made it so that there is no shortage of hurting people. And I’m praying that even when I’m going through it, I can still be a light to help others. So with that, I am not throwing this year away. There is still so much purpose that I can live out in the midst of this chaos. Despite everything, and there is so much to be encompassed in EVERYTHING, 2020 has still been the best year of my life since 2012. This comes as quite the relief, as I had long suspected with horror that I peaked in highschool. I guess apocalyptic years are just my thing.
Captured by: Curts D’Amour
Shoutouts to Anna Hall for her profound statement on depression and Korin Blake-Chung for the quick edit!
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