Dressed to Depress: The Storm

That’s the curse. And the situation. Now the final and most potent part, aptly considered as The Storm.

“Black is all I feel
So this is how it feels to be free”

–“am i inside?”

I have high functioning depression. That much is known. I am not properly diagnosed, though three different medical professionals have told me that I’m a textbook case, but they can’t give me the proper title or treatment as it’s not their field. As I am officially undiagnosed, I do not have a treatment—no counseling or medication to combat the sporadic attacks of emotional distortion I feel.

I feel like everyone’s depression manifests in profoundly different ways, and I find that morbidly fascinating. I know people who are completely ground to a halt when it resurfaces, some not even bothering to get out of bed. I know people who are insanely funny when their depression starts kicking in. My depression makes me a hollow vessel. When the episode begins, I feel doubt, hopelessness, fear, then I feel uncaring and worthlessness… and then I feel… nothing. I don’t feel that profound sadness that people seem to correlate depression with. I don’t feel anger or joy or sorrow or giddiness or … at its most viciously numb, I don’t even feel love. Episodes that severe have been few and far between, thank goodness. But I liken what depression does to me like searing the taste buds off your tongue with a spoon scorched by boiling hot soup. There’s pain at first, then a small tingling sensation, and then… nothing. You taste nothing. And not just for a moment, it feels like it takes forever for the taste buds to grow back. And until they do, you have to eat food that tastes like nothing. There’s no point in eating food you love if you can’t taste, so you just put whatever in your body for sustenance… or you skip it because why bother?

I become a burnt husk of a man when my depression awakens. It feels like being devoured from the inside by a bunch of moths eating my soul like a sweater.

“I don’t want to feel no more
It’s easier to keep falling”

–“black gives way to blue”

I’ve had enough depressive episodes to recognize when depression comes knocking. I see it form in my mind like black storm clouds ready to open up and cause havoc. I have tricks, tips, pointers, and methods to stave it off or try to fight back once the storm begins. But some days, you just have to ride the storm out.

I saw the storm clouds gathering nearly a week before this whole business occurred. And by the time the storm clouds were ready to open up, the Curse was in full swing, and the Situation was just about to initiate. So the rain, it came down in sheets. This wasn’t a normal tropical storm, this was a fucking monsoon.

In order to be as effective as possible, My Depression has to get me alone. It has to cut all lines of communication so that when it starts raining, there’s no one there to hand me an umbrella. I’ve recognized this tactic before and try to keep some connections active so as to not get too bogged down. But damned if My Depression isn’t sneaky convincing, and yep, the lines they were severed. And the lines stayed down because, pssshtt… no one cares that you’re in a pit of despair, don’t bring that negativity to them! And no matter how many times people can tell you “I’m here for you” or “let me know” or “if you’re feeling down, please reach out”, My Depression will always add at the end “No, they weren’t talking about you, fool. They mean people in actual disrepair. Quit blocking the phone lines.”

“Forgive this imperfection
It shows, I know
I am the child that lives
And cries in the corner
Dies in the corner
Unloved inside your mind”

–“acid bubble”

So… what’s eating Robert Relyea? Well, let’s play the Hits.

=I am unworthy of love. Oh, yes, this old chestnut. The “Hey Jude” of intrusive thoughts, just playing non-stop. “Naaa naa naa, na-na-naa naaa, na-na-naa naaa… You suck!”

=I will never be enough, and my wife, kids, family, and friends suffer because of it. I’ve never NOT been struggling and I bring down everyone because of it. I am an anchor who can only dream of floating.

=For someone who can convince himself that I am an interesting and moderately intelligent person, Jesus Christ on a motorbike, I make some unbelievably idiotic decisions and have the personal intrigue of a glass of room temperature skim milk.

=The mirror proves on the daily that I am just three baked potatoes in a trench coat, oh, and don’t let the ring on my finger trick you, that prize-winning marlin I walked down the aisle wasn’t reeled in on my line, but instead accidentally jumped in the boat. I am the Reacher, and she is the Settler.

=The world is on fire, and no one seems to care

You know, all the standard intrusive thoughts that have been present in various degrees nearly all my adult life. Angry bulls contained by a rusty chain link fence that gets pushed over whenever My Depression awakens. And now they’re on the loose.

“Tell me
Does it matter
If I’m still here
Or I’m gone?
Shifting to the after
An imposter
I’m not the one you know”

–“The one you know”

But on top of those prevailing bulls running rampant, there’s a couple extra shots of lightning from the storm clouds this time.

Because of the Situation and my constant and unrelenting work schedule, I have not even been able to properly process the grief of my cat’s passing. We have indoor cats, and especially after one kept trying to escape, every time I came home, I would open the door a crack and find each one making sure I knew where they were to keep them from escaping… I’d count them. One. Two. Three. Ever since his passing, no matter how late I work or what time I come home, I’ll open the door and look around. One. Two. Th… No, only two. It’s not something over paralyzing; I’ve lost pets before, and despite it being sudden, it’s a pain that could be processed under normal circumstances. My hectic adaptation to life has left me little time to properly process the grief, and it’s starting to mutate and feed into the Storm a little more than it should. I miss my cat.

And I miss having friends. Well, I have friends, at least that I know is true. I have my high school friends I share memes with on Messenger. I have my writing group that likes to text about everything except writing. I have my online friends to share the social media experience with. But there’s no one in my proximity to meet up for a drink or hang and laugh and commiserate with. Making friends in your 30’s is difficult, and the concept of a “friend” has changed. In school, your friends are people you see every day, who you talk to every day, who you game with, build legos with, eat sugar loaded snacks with while watching cartoons, and who you would do anything for. When you’re in your 30’s, a friend is … a co-worker you don’t actually hate. I’m ambiverted and really enjoy the introverted side of it, having quiet home moments alone and with my family. Some days though my social battery is fully charged and needs to be vented more than sharing memes with schoolmates or posting 100-character responses on social media can offer.

“Pictures in a box at home
Yellowing, and green with mold
So I can barely see your face
Wonder how that color tastes”

–“Brother”

I’m 37. Old at being young, young at being old. I feel like I wasted a lot of time getting where I am today, even though I didn’t. I have regretful decisions, and I may have biffed some opportunities—who hasn’t—but there really hasn’t been that one obvious moment I messed everything up and had to settle for something lesser. I haven’t fallen far, because that would assume I had been able to climb up high to begin with. But does that mean this is as good as it gets? That absolutely terrifies me. I’ve felt stuck in the mud all my life, but it looks like I’m not stuck… This is where I live now. Welcome to the Mud House! Take your shoes off at the door, we don’t want to track dirt into the -m_U-d_H-o_U-s_E-. This isn’t living, this is barely surviving. You’re telling me this could get worse? Well fuck me in the Ozarks, why don’t you just kill me now and get it over with?

“And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can’t be my own
I’d feel better dead”

–“Nutshell”

Don’t want that last comment to concern anyone, just being dramatic. I’m patently not suicidal for a multitude of reasons. Despite recognizing that I am the oarsman ferrying my family through murky waters in a sinking canoe, jumping overboard would only be worse for them and hardly make their predicament any better. And the emotional damage that would cause everyone in my life is not lost on me; it’s beyond baffling why so many people remain so emotionally invested in me, but deleting myself would cause them pain and suffering. And if we’re being perfectly honest, if you’ll forgive the crassness, I just do not have the balls to pull the trigger (figuratively, … though, probably literally as well). I could be the confirmed biggest waste of space in the world, and I still couldn’t find the cahonies to actually take myself out. Killing myself just isn’t a machination I can conceive in my mind.

However, that does not mean I can’t walk over to the big black pool of un-existence and look into the cold and permanent waters and say “Huh… just imagine.” We’re all going to go for a swim eventually. Most of us are thrown in, but some do dive in themselves. Sometimes it’s fine to look over the edge and wonder what hitting that water is going to feel like. Hopefully, I don’t make a big splash when I go.

“What I see is unreal
I’ve written my own part
Eat of the apple so young
I’m crawling back to start”

–“rotten apple”

Pulling this cumbersome thought barge back into harbor, even though I click with the anguish of Alice in Chains’ music, they also have quietly reflective and cautiously hopeful moments that I like to cling to. In the storm, this realistic optimism is like a lighthouse moored in the darkness. Just keep your eyes on the light and keep the nose between the breakers. Bring the ship in before it sinks.

I think, at my best, when the storm tapers off and I’m in mentally in the clear for the time being, there’s a moment in a song that acts as an audible metaphor for my life. Tyre’s an Alice in Chains song called “Again”, a chaotic grunge stomp with a crunchy guitar riff and grizzled vocals singing about the audacity of people you used to trust. But during the bridge, the riff bears down, and in spite of the vindictive tone of the lyrics during the verse, Jerry Cantrell offers a little levity to the angry chaos and repeats a two-note ditty over the guitar solo. He sings a humorous, almost cartoonish, sting … “Doot-doot …”, and Layne responds with a pseudo-soulful “Yeeeahh..” They do that three or four times, then they repeat it on the outro. The mid-tempo stomp, distorted gunge of guitars, and bitter vocals set up this song, but this one moment of levity floats to the top. … “Doot-doot… yeah.” This is a rough, chaotic, distorted, angry sea, and I live on this island protected by disillusioned humor and perspective. The angry sea drowned everything else and made it this sea of sorrow, but doot-doot island remains. That’s where I live.

“Doot-doot
Yeah”

–“again”

In the middle of writing this, realizing this one post was transforming into a three-parter, I came to the conclusion maybe it’s finally time to seek some actual diagnosis, counseling, and treatment. I’m the horse’s ass who digs his feet in when it comes to getting myself any help whatsoever because I’d rather see others helped first; because I think I’m unworthy of help. But over the last year, I’ve seen specialists who have helped me with afflictions I’ve chosen to suffer with until I was finally convinced… sleep apnea… ADHD…. They’re on a treatment plan, and I feel better than I have in ages because of it. It’s probably time to deal with My Depression rather than just hoping the next time the Storm passes that it’ll be the last one and fool myself into believing it’s all sunshine and happiness from here on out. My Depression will fight that tooth and nail. But I think it’s finally time.

“You’d never know, a long time ago
You were drowning, thinking it over
It’s raining down, and somehow
It reminds me why I even care anymore
You can find me
Writhing in the ghost of a song
Rising through the Rainier fog”

–“rainier fog”

The Storm is still storming. The Situation is still situating. And the Curse is still cursing. But slapping the keyboard to get this all out in 15 minute lunch break increments over the span of a week has been strangely therapeutic. Thanks for not reading it.