The Legitimacy of Emotions

Here's a small thing about me. Whether it was intentional or not one of the lessons that my parents instilled in me was to stay out of the way. By most physical measures I'm an average guy - not too tall and not too wide. However, I feel like a giant, hulking presence and am constantly shifting and adjusting to stay out of the way. If I'm sharing an elevator with someone I shrink into the corner and try to keep out of their way. Should a find myself sharing a bench I will do everything I can to make sure my companion has as much room to spread out as possible.

In short, I do everything I can to make sure that my shit doesn't spill over into or onto your shit.

I'm also that way about emotions. Good feelings or bad are closely guarded secrets for me. I will do everything I can to make sure that no one around me feels obligated to acknowledge or *shudder* do something about my feels.

I say that to say this. In a strange way, I also do this to myself. That stay-out-of-the-way dynamic somehow got rooted in my internal life. Maybe it's best explained as an ego v. id thing. My id has the feelings but my ego doesn't want to mess with them so my id does it's best to keep them in a bottle. I'm not sure if that's apt. It's certainly nothing revolutionary. I think it might be an oversimplification of what Freud was talking about a hundred years ago anyway.

It's worth exploring, though, because as a depressive my emotions come from two distinct places. First, there's the legit source, life, that buffets all of us around. The resultant emotions seem somehow more real. There's cause and resolution and dealing with the situations in between. The other source is depression. This second source is harder to process because there's no cause to resolve; there's only the dealing.

The point is that it's nearly impossible to distinguish the two, especially when I'm in the depths of it. Do I feel bad because life is serving me a bowl of rotten radishes or because my depression has taken over? When I'm really down the question doesn't even occur to me. I can only think of how much I want it to stop or, worse, simply how much it hurts. Meantime, my id is doing everything it can to keep ego from knowing or outwardly reacting.

Therefore, a cycle becomes entrenched whereby all emotions are considered illegitimate until proven otherwise. Not only are they bottled up they are also considered irrelevant until they become too big to ignore. The predictable result is an eventual explosion that either causes me to collapse to cancer of the id or overreact when the ego is forced to act as a pressure valve. Both results are horrible.

I wish I had an answer. Maybe seeing it this way will help to deal. I suppose a way to look at it is to accept each emotion as legitimate. They are, after all. Whether caused by life or depression they have to be handled or they become too much to handle.

Maybe another bit of light in the darkness.

Depression and Exercise

Tired topic, right? We've all heard that exercise might help fight depression. Most of us probably believe it, whether or not we practice it.

I came across this article published yesterday in the Washington Post - Exercise seems to help alleviate depression, but not for everybody. I like a big but and this has one. Exercise might not be for everyone.

It kicks off with findings from a study published in 2007 - Exercise and pharmacotherapy in the treatment of major depressive disorder. It found that 45% those who participated in supervised and monitored exercise programs for four months reported higher "remission rates." Compare that to  home-based exercise = 40%, medication = 47%, and placebo = 31% and there's something to talk about.

Back to the Washington Post article. The reporter talked to experts and cited a few anecdotes about the benefits of exercise. I won't get into it; you can read the article yourself. The conclusion is like those adds for cold cereal that claim their product may be part of a healthy breakfast. For best results, exercise could be a part of a mental-healthy diet of lifestyle, medication, and/or therapy.

Try it, you may like it.

I've tried it. Here's what my research has shown.

First, I hate exercising. There are active things I enjoy - biking, for example - but I generally hate the idea of a regular workout routine. I tend to do the things I like the least first so when I'm trying to exercise it's generally the first thing on my schedule. This makes getting out of my snug, depressive bed all the more difficult. Hating it also makes it so easy to skip. So, the thought that there's one more thing I've failed to do for the day inhabits my brain. This is not a good mood buddy for a depressive.

However, if I can stay with it for a while it does tend to improve disposition. I've never stuck to it long enough to say whether or not it helps with major depression, but the feeling of accomplishment and incrementally improving health does help stave off or lighten the load of the depressing episodes of life. Here's the rub though. I have to keep at it because giving in to the temptation of skipping one, two, three, and then all the days can toss me right back into the pit.

If you look at the numbers from the study, medication actually wins. It beats supervised exercise by two points and self-motivated exercise by seven. But that only looks at depression - pure, straight up, diagnosable depression.The point I'm trying to get to is that this is a narrow view and only over a short period of time. What about those studied after a year? Five years? I've ranted here before about the side effects of meds. One of the biggest ones for me was sexual. The few times I've tried the typical prescription depression meds I had a significant drop in my sex drive. There's no balance to strike there. Perhaps in time I could report "remission" in the major symptoms of depression, but that's a pyrrhic victory if the price is the loss of sex.

There are other downsides to meds. There's cost which is rarely brought up in studies like these, but it's a very real aspect. I don't have any polls at my fingertips, but I'd hazard a guess that for most people money is one of the top five causes of anxiety. Meds costs will always go up. Then there's the cascading effect of meds. Take the sex thing, for example. Sure, I could go back to my doctor and ask for a viagra script which is can lead to more cost and more side effects to worry about. Or I could grab my walking/running shoes and find the outside.

This is supposed to be about exercise, right? Is it the answer? Maybe. Maybe for you. I think it's probably more effective if your depression is life-episode based like a breakup or family death. For depressives like me it can be a little trickier. It's probably not my silver bullet, but it can't hurt.

It's a nice day. I should check the air in my bicycle's tires and maybe take a ride later on. We'll see...

Gardening, 2019

It's 2019. It's hard to believe this is really a year, I mean one that exists. I remember looking at a book in the school library during my early years that told all about how things would be in the year 2000. This is definitely not that future. In other words, where's my friggin' flying car?!

Okay, gardening. I'm a zone higher than I'm used to. I mentioned in the post Still Pursuing that I'd moved to a bigger city. That move took me from zone 5 to 6. This time of year in my old zone I'd generally be turning my dirt, tending any volunteers, and driving slow past the nurseries to check out what new plants were starting to show up on the shelves. Now I'm significantly poorer and there is still snow on the ground. Although I've secured a couple of gardening spots, I'm still waiting impatiently for the world to thaw. My internal rhythm says it's time to get ready to plant. My reality says it's barely time to get ready to get ready to garden. Being poor sort of helps. I can't afford to buy tiny plants so I've had to settle for seeds. The way this helps is that I got to scratch my gardening itch earlier this week by planting my indoor-start seeds. It won't be long before I see those two-leafed little seedlings pushing their way up through the soil and my soul will be lifted a little.

That's not really why I'm here today. On the depression front I took a pretty bad hit earlier this year. I just thought you might deserve a break from my normal whinging on before I got into that. Happy gardening done. Now, let's get into this.

I'm going to try to keep this one brief for two reasons. First, there's a lot and I don't want to burden you with every detail all at once. Second, I'm not entirely sure what happened and I haven't even begun to deal with it. It's hard to write about something one doesn't understand and hasn't processed.

Let's start here. In early January I nearly drank myself to death. This isn't a tale of a drunken night, this is the condensed saga of the months and years of self-medication with booze that landed me in the hospital in January.

I'm not sure how much I've talked about alcohol here but it's played a big role in all my adventures. For me there's no quicker solution to a depressive episode than the numbness that is readily available in any cheap bottle of vodka. I know, I know, alcohol is a depressive. I know it's the last thing a person with depression issues should turn to. However, it's also a beautiful temporary solution when the valleys get too dark. This isn't to advocate drinking, it's just my reality.

So, I'd been drinking and drinking. Then this and that happened and my pancreas shut down. By the way, this is where I'm going to start glossing over the events. For reasons you'll soon see, I'm not sure what happened to me during the last half of January.

So, I'd been drinking and drinking and I started getting sick. First it was vomit and lots of it. Then it was black vomit, which means I was bleeding internally. My wife forced me to go to the ER which tuned out to be the beginning of a nearly two week stay in the hospital. The nurses and docs took a look at me and declared I was staying. They put drugs and hoses in me then started asking questions. In my state my usual filters were down and I mentioned something that I soon regretted.

This is one of the things I'm sure of. I told them about my woman who isn't there. This is my joking way of referring to a very real thing that's been happening to me for years. It comes from the poem that mentions the man who isn't there that the poet keeps meeting on the stair. My woman who isn't there appears to me by peaking around the corner or doorway of wherever I am. She smiles at me and then is gone. It's never dramatic and never frightens me. I should mention that I don't believe in ghosts although I do think about them a lot. I think it's just my imagination that delivers this odd little haunting three or four times a year.

So, I mentioned her and they jumped on it. It's almost like I was feeding a need they deeply craved. A drunk with failing internal organs and hallucinations?! They were ecstatic! At least that's how it seemed to me. They peppered me with questions while I tried to downplay it. No luck. They had they teeth in my damaged psyche and they weren't about to let go of that morsel.

The next few days are a complete blank and the rest of my time there was spent in a crazy hallucination filled fog. From what I've been able to piece together they tackled the pancreas problem first, as that was an immediately life threatening problem. After that was resolved they tackled the mental stuff. They pumped me full of brain drugs that were supposed to help me stop seeing things. Instead I was tripping my eyes out and seeing people and monsters everywhere.

To add to the fun, I developed c-dif during my incarceration so I had to be quarantined.

I swear, I'm trying to tell this quickly.

My memory returns gradually from those first few days during which I didn't exist. It's full of confusing visitations by fantastic monsters, nurses, and impossible-that-they-would-actually-be-there people from my recent past. It's really hard for me to admit that last bit because the visits from those people seemed so real. Maybe I'll expand on this in a future post.

Soon I got enough of my brain back that I began to realize what the game was. More than anything, I wanted to go home where I could rest and there would be no one forcing me to take those mind scramble drugs. In order to get signed out, I had to act sane. Otherwise they were talking about transferring me to a more permanent situation. I don't remember what they called it but I was definitely picturing One Flew Over scenes when they discussed it. Time and my attendees' patience were working against me.

Once or twice a day the doctor who would ultimately make the judgement call against me appeared before me. While the monsters and phantoms danced behind him I would answer his questions. The month was January. The president was Trump. The state I was in was Missouri and I as in a hospital. I got to where I could recite the answers to his questions correctly and in order before he asked them. Finally he would ask if I'd seen any hallucinations recently and I would soberly say no. I was always careful not to oversell it nor giggle along with the creatures of my mind that were laughing hysterically at my lies just behind him.

I guess I was eventually no more fun for the staff and they finally signed off on my release. It had been 13 days, but it felt like the only reality I'd ever known. In fact, for several days after returning home I wasn't sure that I was actually there and not just dreaming in my hospital bed.

I'll stop there. You're a hero for having read this far. I have plenty more to tell you about this event and my - hopefully - recovery. There's my relationship with my wife which changed in a lot of ways as a result of all this nonsense. There's my perception of healthcare and my time there. There's alcohol. There's drugs. And on and on. Plus, more gardening as it progresses.

Keep fighting the good fight, sisters and brothers. We may never achieve pure happiness, but isn't there fulfillment in the pursuit? Well, I least I hope there is. I wouldn't know what else to do.