Is there fire there? Do you see how the spark has returned?
I let my spark go out. It got put out.
Years ago.
When the kindling that once resided at my core was dampened by the dark void that swallowed it as I looked deeply into my own eyes reflected in a mirror over a dirty bathroom sink during one of the worst moments of my life.
But it’s back, I can feel it.
It started at the base of my pelvis. And caught. Traveling up my spinal column, flooding my senses with a sense of assuredness. Gusto. Moxie.
And others can see it too.
“You have that spark in your eye.” “I love when you give me that fiery stare.”
I was halfway through writing a post about why the capitalist consumerism of Christmas bums me out when I stopped mid-sentence and burst out laughing. Oh my god I thought, I am so morbid.
I immediately thought about a conversation I recently had with my sister.
I am a writer. I have been a writer since I started crafting my own letters and narrating my own stories to picture books in kindergarten. That being said, I’ve never shared my writing with anyone. I have a bachelor’s in history. I’ve written history. I’m getting a masters in curriculum and instruction; I’ve written curriculum. But my personal writing, the contents of my brain, and my heart, and my soul; I’ve never shared that.
And now I am. With this blog. This is my first taste of uncensored sharing of the deepest part of my brain, and my heart, and my soul. And it scares me. And I know people are reading it. Not that many people, but still, people. But I am getting zero feedback. Not negative, not positive, just none.
Well, that’s not completely fair, nor true I guess. There have been a few who have reached out and thanked me, told me they’re proud of me, and told me to keep it up. I appreciate that feedback so much! Knowing I have support at all has been key to keeping me going.
But I’ve not gotten any specific feedback. No critiques, no comments about how certain things made people feel, or how they may have been changed because of what they read, or how they connected to something I said. And that makes me hella anxious.
I don’t know how people are actually reacting to my writing.
When I voiced my concerns to my sister, her answer was so simple I had to mull it over for a few days before I was able to accept it as true. Basically, she said there is nothing wrong with my writing. It is honest, it is unflinching, it is dark. And people have a difficult time processing through the kind of feelings this writing makes them feel.
I knew she was right. It made sense. My darkness has been present my entire life. I remember my mom freaked out when I was in preschool because I said my favorite color was black and she thought I was depressed (I don’t really remember if I was yet, but hey).
The reality is, I’ve always been drawn to thinking really deeply, realistically, and morbidly about things. I’ve always been drawn to dark colors, late-night discussions, cemeteries, and the quiet solitude of large bodies of water at night. My curiosity is ignited by decaying buildings, bones, skulls, fungus. I relish the intellectual challenge of true crime, against the background of the crimes themselves.
It probably isn’t a coincidence that I’m also terrified of most of the things I just named.
I have no idea where that morbidity comes from. Maybe it is just my depression manifesting in my personality. Maybe I am just a pessimist. Either way, I’ve slowly come to realize how my darkness can make others uncomfortable. My sister is right, darkness scares people. Darkness brings up feelings people usually try to avoid. Sure, I have set my own darkness free and am glorying in the freedom I feel because of it. But a lot of people are perfectly happy suppressing their darkness and keeping it positive.
I guess it makes sense the masses wouldn’t want to consistently have to confront something they fear so much.
I realize that, just because I’m ready to talk about this stuff, that doesn’t mean everyone is.
I guess I hope that one day, we will progress as a people to regard the darkness with less fear. For, why should darkness be so scary? Why are we so terrified of the unknown? Why do we literarily apply the color black to evil things, “the dark side?”
In the meantime, dear readers, I realize the emotional rollercoaster I’ve taken you on. I thank those of you who have returned to more than one of my posts. I will work on sharing more of my triumphant feelings associated with my mental health journey to lighten the tone a little (at least more so than I am now). And I promise I won’t ruin your holiday with a rant about my critical analysis of the Christmas season.
All I ask in return is that you allow yourself to spend more time with your darkness. Ride the wave of that uncomfortable feeling, let it all out, and see where it takes you. Allow yourself some time to really process through an intense emotion, and see what you find out about yourself in the process.
Disclaimer: I was raised in a white Christian household in a Judeo-Christian community in America. I don’t assume that I speak for anyone who celebrates any other sort of holiday in any other sort of cultural community.
As I sat on my couch on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, trying to write a post about my feelings towards Thanksgiving this year, I was literally paralyzed with anxiety. No words would come out. My interior monologue reached a level of chaos that resulted in my brain short-circuiting. I had to put my computer away, pour myself a glass of wine, do some yoga, watch an episode of Modern Loveon Amazon Prime. That’s how anxious Thanksgiving made me.
Disclaimer #2: My anxiety had nothing to do with Thanksgiving itself, although I know that is a reality for many. If you would like to know more about how I’ve tried to decolonize my brain and my thoughts on Thanksgiving, don’t talk to me, read and learn from the actual source. You can access indigenous voices on the topic here and here. Challenging my white family members on our views of Thanksgiving does make me anxious every year, but I see it as my duty and I don’t allow myself the right to complain about it.
Happy Thanksgiving from my family!
Then I realized I was anxious for many reasons that are indicative of our cultural stigmas around mental health, our societal culture of “toxic positivity,” and norms around what is and isn’t acceptable as “small talk” with people you don’t see very often. Luckily, my Thanksgiving was actually pretty amazing. There were fewer people there than usual. The relatives that did come are people I see fairly often (who are already updated on my life). None of my worst-case-scenarios came true and I was able to take breaks when I was feeling overwhelmed.
That being said, I decided I should still write a post about my feelings leading up to “the holiday season” this year, as I have a feeling I’m not alone in this anxiety. So, below you will find some of the things associated with the holidays that make them so damn hard when you have depression.
“How are you?”
I hate this question. As a culture, Midwestern Americans especially ask this question as if it’s another greeting. A mere synonym for saying hello. The problem is, I have met very few distant acquaintances/extended family members who actually are interested in how you are doing. Instead, the expected response is a simple “good” or “fine” or, if you’re feeling spicy, “living the dream.” Then we get to move on with a surface-level conversation, re-breaking the ice that formed between us over the passed months of little to no contact.
The problem is, I’m not good. I don’t feel fine. And I am definitely not living out my dreams right now. I am depressed. I just spent 48 hours in a psychiatric hospital because I made, and almost acted on, a suicide plan. I am taking a two month leave from work. But when people ask how I am, they are generally not looking for me to unload on them about my depression. They don’t want to hear the details of my low self-esteem and PTSD. When people ask “How are you?” they are looking for the culturally accepted stock-answer that will help them break the ice and feel more comfortable.
This cultural norm makes me feel trapped. I no longer have the emotional capacity to pretend everything is fine to make others feel more comfortable. Forcing myself to paste a smile on my face and make small talk like this is forcing myself back into the bottom of the well of my depression. It makes me feel disconnected, alone, invisible. Since my mental breakdown, I have decided I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to lie and say I’m fine when I’m not. And if my answer makes the questioner uncomfortable, maybe don’t ask how I am if you don’t want to hear a genuine answer.
And, ultimately, why? Why would my genuine answer make someone uncomfortable? Why would a family member, who claims to care about me, who is asking how I am, feel uncomfortable with me talking to them about my depression? Knowing my depression makes others uncomfortable is part of what kept me from opening up about it in the first place. This need to hide my depression and appear is if everything is fine for the sake of others’ comfort is part of what forced me on the island that led to my suicidal ideation in the first place.
Catching Up
Last year, at my family’s Christmas Eve party, I announced that I was the 2019 recipient of a prestigious award in public teacher terms, especially as a 4th year teacher. This year, at my family’s Christmas Eve party, I have nothing to announce. My only “news” going on in my life right now is my mental breakdown.
I only see many of my family members twice a year: for Christmas and for our family reunion in the summer time. We are not unique in this pattern. “The Holidays” are a popular time of year for making announcements as most people can count on getting their family in one place for in-person communication and celebration. Even sans important announcements, these infrequent meetings usually result in a great deal of catching up. I can expect a lot of questions about my life, my job, and the general goings-on over the previous six months of not seeing each other.
Let me be clear, the practice of asking about your family members’ lives is not a bad thing. The problematic part is our cultural stigmas about what types of “news” people often feel comfortable sharing and/or hearing about. Telling my family about an award I won was exciting and exhilarating. I announced it with pride, confidence, and (dare I say) swagger. On the other hand, having a mental breakdown, spending time in a psychiatric hospital, and taking a leave from work; all that doesn’t seem like news I should be sharing. It’s too negative, too dark.
When I think about answering my relatives’ queries with the truth about what is going on with me, I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Like I somehow failed (especially in comparison with where I was in my career last year). Furthermore, the topic of mental health isn’t something many families I know talk about openly. I’ve operated within a dynamic my entire life where we only talk about happy things because we don’t want to bum anyone out or make anyone uncomfortable.
This seems harmless. If I don’t see someone for a while we obviously want to keep our time together positive and fun. Unfortunately, this is an example of “toxic positivity.” According to Psychology Today, “The phrase “toxic positivity” refers to the concept that keeping positive, and keeping positive only, is the right way to live your life. It means only focusing on positive things and rejecting anything that may trigger negative emotions.” Forcing ourselves to only share positive things reinforces feelings of shame and failure when you are going through something that isn’t positive. Feeling ashamed of my depression is part of what made it so difficult for me to seek help. Feeling like my loved ones don’t want to hear about my darkness reinforced my need to pretend everything was fine. This led to those same feelings of isolation and invisibility. My depression is part of me. I don’t want to be ashamed of it anymore.
Hugging
If your family is like mine, everyone expects a hug hello, and a hug goodbye (I also have 27 first cousins, and my family events run 100 people strong so this process takes some time). I love my family very much. I am not a hugger.
Being forced to hug family members as a kid was the earliest messaging I received that my body is not my own property. I have anxiety. Part of my anxiety is an extreme discomfort being touched by people with whom I don’t have an intimate relationship. Regardless of my feelings towards hugging, I grew up in a socio-cultural environment where it was considered rude if I didn’t hug even one family member in both greeting and farewell. If I refused to hug someone, my elders would be disappointed in my “attitude.”
The knowledge that I will be forced to hug 100+ people that I barely ever see is daunting. Attending a family party means knowingly walking into a situation where I will be forced out of my physical comfort zone against my will over and over again. Additionally, the knowledge that my natural boundaries around physical touch is a disappointment to my family members increases my feelings of shame and failure about my mental health.
I do love “the holidays.” Like many people I know, some of my favorite childhood and family memories center around this time of year. But I also have depression and anxiety, and navigating the holidays and mental health is difficult. If you’re reading this and you have a family member that suffers with mental health issues, think about what it would take to be an ally to them as they navigate the social politics of family functions this time of year. Although spending time with family can be stressful, it was also my family that made my Thanksgiving so pleasant as the people in attendance chose understanding and support over commitment to social norms. And that’s all I can really ask for.
An Experiment with Vulnerability 