#121: The Terrible Absence of Pain

Recently, when I was talking to a friend about my struggles with depression, I was going through the litany of why my life was fine.  And he looked at me, and said something that really made an impact.

"What you just said are all absences of pain.  Not the presence of good things."

He was right, of course.  The state of my life right now is absence of pain--most of the time.  And don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking absence of pain.  I don't think he was either.  But it's hard to live a joyful life when you don't feel any joy.

I know I am depressed.  I know that's not something in my control, and that it's an actual mental illness.  But I can't help feeling guilty that I can't find the joy in my life.  It feels like a failure on my part.  Like a selfish, greedy way of looking at the world; to want for more joy when so many people are dealing with such agonizing pain.  

I, personally, know of someone who just lost a child.  I would stop breathing if I lost my children.  Why is it so hard to translate the knowledge that my children are whole and (mostly) well into some kind of joy?

I don't know.

I know that, emotionally speaking, my life has been hard for the last decade.  I lost my partner.  I am a mostly single parent.  I moved.  I started a job.  My children have atypicalities that make school hard for one, and almost impossible for the other.  My health has not always been great.

I have taken every meeting at the school.  I have signed every piece of paper.  I have managed every phone call, sometimes multiple ones a day.  I have learned a new industry and a new way of working in the space of two months.  I have rearranged my life schedule and planned alternative after-school plans and tried to figure out how to still do the laundry.  Speaking of which, I have done every load of laundry.  I have done all the dishes.  I have cooked all the meals, dealt with all the dead mice, shoveled all the snow, and taken out every load of trash.  And the weight of knowing that these things are all mine to do--not individually, but collectively--that it is all mine to do--is heavy.

I grew up in a home where there were never less than four adult to share the load.  Sometimes I think wistfully of what that would be like.  Even two would be pretty swell.  But I don't have two.  I have me.  And me is trying her best, but anyone who walked into my kitchen right now would see that some things are slipping.

And yet... there is an absence of pain.  Sure, this is hard.  I'm not trying to say it's easy.  But I have dealt with the children's school issues, and both of them are doing better.  I have gotten the job which will provide me with my own financial security.  My children are healthy, and getting happier.  So why is it that every day seems to be so hard?

I really don't know.

But I do know that I'm not the only one who feels this way.  That this is actually a common problem.  And, in the wake of the past four years, where the nation has seemed a terrifying and out of control place for many of us, the macro crisis of the world at large has sent a lot of us with this very common problem into a tailspin.  

As another friend recently put it... we're struggling.

But we don't talk about it all that much.  We feel shame that we can't find the joy in the simple absence of pain.  We feel guilt that things are hard.  

We really don't want to talk about the state of our kitchens.

And the thing is, I think we need to.  Depression isn't a safe thing to keep quiet.  When it's serious, it can be a terminal illness.  And when it's less critical it can still take a life that ought to be vibrant and full of joy and leech all the color from it.  And worst of all, it spirals downward.  When you're depressed, it's harder to do the things that can pull you out of depression.

So we need to talk about it.  

My friends are a lifeline to me, because they know, and they don't let me slip too far down the spiral.  Not because they can fix anything, or change anything.  Just because they're always there, and they keep reminding me that they care.  It's amazing how strongly knowing that someone else cares can anchor you in place.  But people aren't mind readers, and they might not see that we're slipping if we're too embarrassed to talk about it.

So, I'm going to keep talking about my mental illness.  I'm going (to try) to let go of the shame of the things I keep let slipping--

Seriously.  Those fucking dishes.

--and I'm going to encourage others to talk about it as well.  None of us need to sit in silence when so many of us are in the same damn boat.  None of us need to feel alone in this.  None of us need to make the isolation any bigger.

Hi, my name's Jessica, and I'm depressed.

*the art in this post is from a photo shoot on grief that I did with a friend.