On Depression
Am I grieving or depressed, or is it both?
Depression is a finicky beast. Meaning when it comes, it flays me apart. I have plans before depression hits me—things I want to do: goals, errands, chores, and dreams. But when depression is here, initiative feels far away. Some days, I drink alcohol if only to feel something other than nothing or what feels like little creatures gnawing on my bones. Sometimes I’m afraid to plan for the future because what if I get depressed and then I can’t go through with it?
Teaching a poetry class every week for two years was challenging. I had to show up, I had to be present, even on days when I didn’t feel like it, on days when I wanted to crawl into myself or an alcohol stupor. Perhaps that was good for me - the teaching, not the alcohol stupor - to be forced to do something so I wouldn’t sink. But on some of those days, when I finished teaching I felt like a piece of shit, drained and anxious.
The depression accompanies days when I feel great, when I have so many ideas, and I don’t know which one to do first. I want to start new projects. I text friends to hang out. I run errands and clean the house. On those days, I think that depression is over, that it’ll never return, that I’ve done something that’s changed who I am, and I will no longer be that low-energy mess. But depression always returns. I try to tell myself it lasts less time, I bounce back quicker, and it’s less severe. And then wham, I get hit with suicidal ideation that lasts for days. I cry. I sleep a lot. Or at least lie in bed. Maybe I binge-watch a show or watch several movies in a row until I feel unreal. This comes with its own set of guilt, like how I’m wasting away, how I could be doing so much more, but instead I am wallowing in self-pity. It feeds itself. The more I rot, the angrier I get, and the more I rot.
I’ve considered taking antidepressants. But I’m scared. I’m scared of needing medication for the rest of my life. I’m scared of the long-term consequences, and whether they’ll change who I am, and I’ll never get myself back. I think that ultimately, the antidepressants are only making me a productive capitalist cog. But mostly, I don’t want to be dependent on a pill. And I know so much of that is attached to how I saw my mother’s addiction to benzodiazepines spiral into madness. I know there are safer pharmaceuticals out there. I know people take them. I know you, reading this, might take them - and I’m not trying to say don’t, but I don’t know. What is it that I’m ultimately trying to prove by refusing pills?
I suppose the other part of this is that when I’m depressed, there’s no way I’m going to get myself to a doctor to get the prescription. I’m too into my feels. And then when I’m feeling ok, well, I don’t think I need it. Because though a part of me knows the depression will come back, because it always does, I really, really, really hope each time that it won’t.
Truthfully, it has gotten better! I do lots of rituals to keep myself together, like meditation, yoga, journaling, and exercise. I could do more - like not drinking as much, maybe cutting down on my caffeine intake, and eating slightly better.
This last bout of depression, which I’m still partially in, but getting out of, was bad. It hasn’t been this bad since the beginning of 2024 after I found out about my mother’s death.
Maybe this isn’t even depression, maybe it’s grief.
In writing my memoir, my mother felt alive. Now that I’m coming to the end stages of this behemoth project, it’s like I have to accept that she’s gone and that this is it. This is the most I can do for her memory: to share this with the world.
And amid this grief, the world outside of myself continues to crack itself open to reveal its toxicity. I want to do so much more for what’s happening - the ICE raids, the multiple genocides, the construction of Alligator Auschwitz. So much needs to be done against the terrorizing powers of Empire. I want to be on the right side of history so badly. Ha. But I oscillate between feeling helpless, unsure what it is that I can do, and just feeling immensely drained.
The immense drain comes from the fact that I’ve done a lot this year. Getting this manuscript together while working full-time. While also caring for a cat and a dog, who both seem to have health issues (that I think are finally improving, which is such a relief). It’s just been a lot to deal with. I probably need to go back to therapy, or maybe I just need a vacation.
For over a decade, I avoided working full-time, filling in the gaps with extra gigs or food stamps. Being poor wasn’t fun, but I preferred it. But in my late 30s, I decided I wanted a bigger place to live, I wanted my own room, I wanted to eat out and take more writing classes or attend residencies and retreats, which all cost money. So here I am with a full-time job, and circling back to the depression - it’s hard. It’s hard to be present, only to have two days off every week, to be at the whim of someone else and their priorities.
Anyway, I suppose my point in all this is that… is this depression? Or am I just exhausted from working full-time, finishing my emotionally-laborious manuscript, and grieving my mother? And maybe that’s to be expected, maybe that’s just part of being human. Maybe depression is ok, or rather, it’s okay not to be okay.