Letting Myself Free

Someone I recently spoke with suggested that I was holding on to depression as a reason to keep talking about it. The point was made that my novel is about a woman who suffers with depression, I have a blog about my experiences with depression, and now I host a weekly room on the social app Clubhouse about—you guessed it—depression. 

Yes, I suppose it does seem like a lot. But here’s the thing. I was silent about it for over three decades because it haunted and shamed me. No one except my sister knew what I struggled with on a consistent basis because I was embarrassed about the melancholy that seemed to be my constant companion. I didn’t know how to explain it, nor did I understand why I suffered the way I did.  And I was in therapy for so many years before I even admitted it to anyone. Coming out on social media as a depressive was one of the scariest things I had ever done. But it also felt right. It felt necessary. For me. 

But does that really mean I’m holding onto depression? Why would anyone want to hold onto something that debilitates them? No one wants to feel the symptoms of an invisible illness that manifests itself in conditions misdiagnosed by doctors.  I’m not using my discussion of depression as a way to gain attention or more followers. I’m actually doing it because I truly feel deep down inside that it is my—for lack of a better word—calling. It feels right to me. It feels like I went through what I had to in order to share with and help others navigate an illness that is so misunderstood. 

A few people who have read my blogs and listened to the podcasts that I’ve been featured in have commented about how brave I am for sharing such personal stories about myself. But it was never bravery. It simply felt natural. We all follow our own paths. From a very young age, I knew that writing was my outlet. And when I realized that writing about what most troubled me actually gave me solace, I knew I had to share that outlet. So, am I really being brave for sharing my story or am I just being selfish in taking advantage of its therapeutic benefits?

I’m not holding onto depression. I’m laughing at it in its face. I’m making sure it knows that it no longer has its clutches inside of me. I’m fighting against the thing that had taken my freedom and my life for so many years, and I’m making sure it knows that it has not won. By keeping silent about what had plagued me would be holding onto it. No, what I’m doing is letting myself free. Make no mistake of it. I have no hold on depression in the same way that it has lost its grip on me. 

Does this resonate with you? Please leave a comment about how you have set yourself free from the clutches of depression. I’d love to hear from you!

An Unwelcomed Companion

I know what it feels like to be trapped inside your own home because some invisible force has a strange and indomitable power over you. No matter how much you think you can coerce your mind to break from that power, you are always completely defeated. I don’t know exactly when my anxiety began; for as long as I can remember it has always been my companion, a rude intrusion in my life. Though unwelcomed, it has consistently kept me feeling safe. Safe from what exactly, I do not know but that is the feeling that inhabits my mind whenever anxiety keeps me trapped inside my home. Yes, I use the present tense because although this unwelcomed thing does not haunt me as much now, it does make a periodic appearance, reminding me that it has never quite left me alone.

What would I call this companion, this intruder that prevents me from leaving my home because of some irrational fear? A mild case of agoraphobia?

It was the thing that would make itself known to me each summer when being single and a teacher meant that I got the freedom to do anything and go anywhere. The pressure of having such freedom weighed heavily on me each year as people expectantly asked me what my intentions were for the summer. I always felt forced to make up interesting plans so that they wouldn’t impose their thoughts about what a well-spent summer actually is were they to be disappointed with my response. This same intruder would remind me that I didn’t need to make any plans to go anywhere because it would keep me from pursuing them anyway.

Yes, it was the summers when this thing would haunt me the most. On days I had no plans, I was completely content to stay inside either working on my novel or watching movies. My companion did not bother me on those days because it did not need to convince me to stay inside. If I had made specific plans to meet a friend, then my companion again made no appearance. It was on those days that I planned to perhaps aimlessly walk the park to get a bit of fresh air that I would find myself stalling. Perhaps making sure the kitchen was properly cleaned or playing a few games on my phone or reading chapters of a book. I would find myself doing all sorts of things that occupied my time in the home as a way to delay my stepping foot outside the door. Because once I walked out the door, that would mean that I had to actually do what I had intended to do. Don’t ask me why but that frightened me like nothing else ever did.

 What if people outside could see that about me? What if they could tell that I was a frightened loser? That I was all alone and had nothing to do? What if someone actually wanted to talk to me and have a conversation and I had nothing to offer? What if I said something stupid because I could not properly think of something smart or clever to contribute? No, no. It’s better to stay inside. That way, I would not have to deal with any embarrassing or awkward moments and I wouldn’t find myself in a situation that I could not handle.

But then the part of me who wanted me to go out and experience the day would say: Just go. What’s the big deal? People go for walks alone all the time. Just go! No one out there cares about your situation. Then the part of me that was guided by the invader would say: But I don’t have a destination. Isn’t it weird just walking the neighborhood with no destination in mind? No, no, maybe I’ll just stay home. Anyway, I wanted to work on the next chapter of my novel so I better stay inside.

Needless to say, that part of me won—the part of me that was guided by the unwelcomed invader who forced itself into my life to prevent me, for whatever reason, from having any type of memorable experiences. And I remember—I remember thinking to myself and crying: “Something’s wrong. Something is keeping me inside. I don’t understand why I can’t go outside. I don’t understand what’s keeping me here.” Yes, thoughts of hexes and voodoo spells entered my mind. I thought someone must be doing this to me because it is not normal to be afraid to go outside. It was a fear borne out of something that was a complete mystery to me. Why was this happening? Why was I experiencing this? Why was this unwelcomed companion always by my side on days when it was just me?

Sometimes, with nothing to do but a need to leave my home, I’d decide to go shopping at the mall, just as a definite plan to be somewhere. That was the thing. I tried to trick my mind into thinking that a plan was definite just so the unwelcomed intruder wouldn’t shove itself inside my brain to take up all the space that made me think I could actually leave the house. But even the mall wasn’t a good enough plan because the invader knew how much I hated to go shopping. Or did it impose that hatred onto me just so I would not leave my home?

As I mentioned, this intruder rarely makes an appearance in my life anymore. Is it because I now have a physical companion in my husband? There’s no longer any need for me to go out on my own because I divide my time between my husband and my twin sister. And I have a perfect excuse for an aimless walk when I am with my puppy Roxie. Yes, that’s what it is. Having a consistent partner and consistent things to do seems to have made the horrific invader disappear for now.

Here’s my positive perspective: This is the first time in my life where I have actually acknowledged this despicable intruder. I believe in my power of the written word: I expose my mental afflictions through my writing and thus release them onto the page (in this case, my computer screen) where they are metaphorically trapped. Yes, it will one day rear its ugly head again perhaps when I’ve let my guard down, forgetting that this is something that I’ve battled for so many years in my past. When that day does come, I pray I will remember this post. I pray that the release of this thing through my writing will give me the power to know and understand that there is nothing to fear in leaving the comfort of my home. Guarded by the knowledge and recognition of what this thing is, I believe that I finally have the proper mindset I need to face it head on and render it powerless.

Does this resonate with you? Please leave a comment about how you have dealt with anxiety in your life. I’d love to hear from you!