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edenfallingApropos of nothing in particular, I was rereading one of my old journals yesterday (paper journal, not online), which I basically stopped using when I got a livejournal at the end of 2003.
And wow, I was not a happy person back then. Even in late 2003, when I was on antidepressants and had two and a half years of therapy behind me, I was still in a really unhealthy mental place. I knew it, and I was groping toward something more normal, but I was still so far from okay.
Going back to full-time college was really not the right move at that point. I think that maybe now I'd be able to handle that sort of pressure (it's an emotional and structural pressure, not academic pressure, since I find most classwork easy), but I really wasn't up to it then. I was so unrelentingly negative about everything, even while I was trying to put a positive spin on my life.
I thought I needed permission to like myself. I thought I had to earn happiness, and I scrambled to justify any time I felt good even though I hadn't fulfilled all my obligations.
Two years of work have really helped ground me. I look back at myself, and I can remember being that person, but now I can see the walls of the box I'd trapped myself in. When I was inside it, the box looked like the whole world. Now I'm standing outside, and I can't figure out how I ever thought I could fit inside that horrible mess.
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In a related topic, I think I may have figured out why I tried so hard not to call my parents during those years, even though I desperately needed human contact. Here is an article that talks (in a glancing, surface way) about how to help family or friends who are suffering from depression.
My dad is a great person, but he's absolute shit at dealing with emotions. He kept trying to make plans and offer me techniques for fixing things. Which is normally a fine thing, and I love him for it because he's helped me figure out how to deal with a number of technical issues where I would otherwise be at sea. But at that time, I was not in any mental or emotional shape to accept or use his advice, and what he ended up doing was making me feel like a complete failure, because I kept ignoring his help and just digging myself into one screwup after another.
My mom, on the other hand, was emotionally supportive, but she tried, I think, to support too much too fast. She kept telling me that I was a worthwhile person, that I was a good person, that she loved me, that things would work out, and so on. And I wasn't ready to hear that. What I wanted was someone to listen when I just poured out all this rotten slime that built up inside, and then say, "It's okay. It'll be all right. You'll get through this," and not push. Because I tried to listen to Mom and tell myself that I was a worthwhile person, and it just didn't ring true inside and then I felt like shit for not being able to believe her in my gut.
(I could believe her in my head just fine, just like I could see the sense in Dad's plans, but if thoughts translated perfectly to feelings and psychosomatic responses, the world would be a very different place and humans wouldn't be human, as we know ourselves.)
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It is, as I said, weird to look back on how much I've changed over the past few years... heck, even just this past one year. I don't think it's affected my writing much. I was always writing, sometimes even during the absolute rock bottom of my depressive periods, and I'm not sure anyone could tell, from outside, how I felt about myself from my stories.
I don't think it's affected my online persona much either; I tend to keep these things pretty close to my vest, except for rare confessional urges like this.
But I am so happy that I'm not in that place anymore. I think I've finally come to terms with myself. I hadn't really noticed -- I still have bad days, like anyone -- but it's been a long time since I felt I had to justify my happiness, or since I felt guilty just for existing.
It's taken me nearly five years since I admitted I had a problem, but by god, I think I made it.
And wow, I was not a happy person back then. Even in late 2003, when I was on antidepressants and had two and a half years of therapy behind me, I was still in a really unhealthy mental place. I knew it, and I was groping toward something more normal, but I was still so far from okay.
Going back to full-time college was really not the right move at that point. I think that maybe now I'd be able to handle that sort of pressure (it's an emotional and structural pressure, not academic pressure, since I find most classwork easy), but I really wasn't up to it then. I was so unrelentingly negative about everything, even while I was trying to put a positive spin on my life.
I thought I needed permission to like myself. I thought I had to earn happiness, and I scrambled to justify any time I felt good even though I hadn't fulfilled all my obligations.
Two years of work have really helped ground me. I look back at myself, and I can remember being that person, but now I can see the walls of the box I'd trapped myself in. When I was inside it, the box looked like the whole world. Now I'm standing outside, and I can't figure out how I ever thought I could fit inside that horrible mess.
------------------------------
In a related topic, I think I may have figured out why I tried so hard not to call my parents during those years, even though I desperately needed human contact. Here is an article that talks (in a glancing, surface way) about how to help family or friends who are suffering from depression.
My dad is a great person, but he's absolute shit at dealing with emotions. He kept trying to make plans and offer me techniques for fixing things. Which is normally a fine thing, and I love him for it because he's helped me figure out how to deal with a number of technical issues where I would otherwise be at sea. But at that time, I was not in any mental or emotional shape to accept or use his advice, and what he ended up doing was making me feel like a complete failure, because I kept ignoring his help and just digging myself into one screwup after another.
My mom, on the other hand, was emotionally supportive, but she tried, I think, to support too much too fast. She kept telling me that I was a worthwhile person, that I was a good person, that she loved me, that things would work out, and so on. And I wasn't ready to hear that. What I wanted was someone to listen when I just poured out all this rotten slime that built up inside, and then say, "It's okay. It'll be all right. You'll get through this," and not push. Because I tried to listen to Mom and tell myself that I was a worthwhile person, and it just didn't ring true inside and then I felt like shit for not being able to believe her in my gut.
(I could believe her in my head just fine, just like I could see the sense in Dad's plans, but if thoughts translated perfectly to feelings and psychosomatic responses, the world would be a very different place and humans wouldn't be human, as we know ourselves.)
------------------------------
It is, as I said, weird to look back on how much I've changed over the past few years... heck, even just this past one year. I don't think it's affected my writing much. I was always writing, sometimes even during the absolute rock bottom of my depressive periods, and I'm not sure anyone could tell, from outside, how I felt about myself from my stories.
I don't think it's affected my online persona much either; I tend to keep these things pretty close to my vest, except for rare confessional urges like this.
But I am so happy that I'm not in that place anymore. I think I've finally come to terms with myself. I hadn't really noticed -- I still have bad days, like anyone -- but it's been a long time since I felt I had to justify my happiness, or since I felt guilty just for existing.
It's taken me nearly five years since I admitted I had a problem, but by god, I think I made it.
