Isolation

It's easy to believe no one else can empathize with being so depressed that it overrides every other emotion. Depression can make everything else seem fuzzy and unfocused, blurring out the details to the point that happiness or anxiety become too similar to differentiate. Likewise, depression can also make it easy to forget that there are people that might genuinely care about your well-being, even if you've already become ambivalent to the idea of still being alive.

Even with therapy and a lot of support, I still struggle with being in that state of mind every day. It makes me wonder if I'll ever reach a point of actually feeling as though my life and everything I'm trying to accomplish is worthwhile.

Validation

From as early as I can remember, I have always been treated as something that exists solely to bend to my mother's every whim. If not, I was always the scapegoat instead. She would pretend to be the epitome of a martyr parent to everyone on the outside, the self-sacrificing mother that would do anything for her child. Yet on the inside, she would use that same act to guilt me into making sacrifices for her instead. She would (and still does) remind me of all the 'sacrifices' she's made to justify everything she knows she shouldn't be asking me to do. How else can a mentally ill parent come to terms with emotionally blackmailing a twelve year old into handing over all of her money just to cover the mortgage? This particular thing happened often in my childhood, if only because she could never stop herself from buying more shit she didn't need.

On the other hand, whenever I bought something for myself instead of donating everything I had to paying the bills, she would make sure I knew what an ungrateful, horrible person I was. Buying anything other than food for myself was, as she once put it, like biting the hand that fed me.

I believe part of this stems from the fact that she sees me as just another part of the hoard, an object without its own thoughts or opinions, and growing up being treated as such explains a lot about why I have so much difficulty with finding validation in myself. It also explains why she reacts with skepticism or negativity whenever I accomplish something for my own well-being rather than hers. It might be a subconscious thing for her, but that doesn't make it any less damaging for me.

From Chaos to Calm

I often find myself struggling with mindfulness, a method that supposedly allows one to find a space between anger itself and the explosive or implosive reaction it causes. The intended result is the ability to reflect on what caused the emotional response before acting out, therefore being able to express it in a healthy way. For someone like me, who lacks patience nearly all of the time, this is one of the most difficult things to accomplish in the midst of an episode. What also makes this difficult is my inability to focus on something, anything, other than how angry I feel in that moment. I've been told I can be very stubborn about certain things, and I suppose that happens to be one of them.

More than a small part of me wants to hold on to that anger because doing otherwise still feels like giving up or giving in. So much of it comes from feeling invalidated and unjustified, to the point that I've felt compelled to force my view of what's 'right' on the people I believe don't know better. There have been times in the past when I would become preoccupied with that idea, which is ironic considering how much bullshit I've allowed myself to accept whenever some sort of wrongdoing was directed at me instead of someone else. Maybe that in itself ties into the pattern I seem to have of ignoring my own needs and focusing far too much on those of specific people, to the point of becoming codependent.

While most of the anger I feel seems to be random as far as catalysts are concerned, I understand that some of it does come from a logical place. For example, take this series of events; an inability to sleep, followed by being woken up by the sound of mice digging somewhere inside the walls, which causes an anxiety attack, and is then followed by being told by my mother that this is a problem I should've taken care of months ago by helping to clean the house. Even in that situation, I'm now able to see that being angry about it is healthy and even constructive. Lashing out as a result, though     not as much.

In just over a month I will have been in therapy for a full year, and can see that some progress has been made in that time. And yet it bothers me that the way to finding mindfulness is still so challenging. regardless of the amount of work I've done to find just a shred of calmness within myself.

Expressions of Anger, Healthy and Otherwise

I wasn't always an outwardly angry person. Rather than the explosive reactions I've been displaying lately, I always turned the anger inwards to avoid making anyone else feel uncomfortable.  For the majority of my life I felt as though it wasn't my place to express that anger even if I had a right to do so. I had no idea how unhealthy and self destructive this actually was, since it was the only coping mechanism I'd ever known.

However, feeling inappropriately angry is an entirely new thing. It's surreal to be so acutely aware that it really is inappropriate and unhealthy, rather than having a perspective so distorted by low self-esteem that I usually believe everything I do is a mistake.

This newfound awareness is helping me learn what appropriate anger feels like in comparison, at least. For example, getting uncontrollably angry at crowds of people for being in my way, for standing exactly in the middle of the sidewalk, or for seeming unaware of how to walk properly: inappropriate. This is what living in a city is always like, I should be used to it. I know I shouldn't want to punch a man for exiting a building and then promptly standing directly in my path. I probably shouldn't have also yelled 'excuse me, asshole' at him, but it happened as if it was an uncontrollable instinct.

On the other hand, being angry about growing up in a hoarder's house with leaks in the roof so big the rain pours in: entirely appropriate. There's a stark contrast between these two types of anger, and I've finally learned how to recognize it; one is uncontrollable, the other is motivating.

Counterintuition

Over the course of this year, I've learned that what I think of myself is often the complete opposite of what most people think of me. I've been told that when I err on the side of being what I consider slightly distant, I actually come across as cold. What I consider to be too needy or too emotional is apparently still, in its own way, somewhat detached.

There seems to be much more than a fine line between healthy caution and unhealthy paranoia, especially when interacting with other people. The more I work towards overcoming depression and anxiety, the more I see that there's a huge gap between these two extremes. In my mind, I seem to be afraid of falling into some sort of uncanny valley between being too detached and not detached enough. I sometimes become preoccupied with avoiding the point along that spectrum that would make me come across as off-putting, but where exactly does that point lie? And where does 'normal' really lie within that, anyway? How can I figure out how to find that space in between too much and too little if I can't even trust my own judgment of my own actions?

But, that's not even the most important question. There's one thing that needs an answer most of all      how can anyone overcome being their own worst enemy?

Paranoia

For people struggling with major depression, I've noticed there often comes a time when nothing happening on the outside can influence what happens on the inside. Regardless of how much praise and encouragement one receives, that nagging voice of self-doubt does its best to destroy any positive feelings resulting from it. Other times, what's happening on the outside can override everything. I tend to switch between these two extremes; feeling no different from positive or negative outside influences, and feeling the same no matter what due to the constant state of restlessness that soldiers on within me.

It's a unique experience to be able to hear mice gnawing away inside one's mattress while lying on it, or to be required to empty water from the tub into the sink every day because the drain of the former no longer works. Sometimes these things have a way of staying with me, reminding me of how much I feel as though I've become stuck in this horrible, chaotic environment. It makes me question my own abilities in areas that have absolutely no relation to my home life. It makes me wonder why anyone would want to be friends or in a relationship with someone that, from my perspective, can't even get their own life together long enough to find a safe place to live.

With that in mind, it's still difficult to believe anyone would genuinely want to get to know me without having some kind of ulterior motive. This feeling has gotten much worse ever since I stopped taking antidepressants, to the point that I've gone back to thinking of myself as a horrible, annoying and ugly person that doesn't deserve anything good or positive. Although I had once known no other way to think of myself, having a brief period of relief from such extreme self-loathing has given me a new and somewhat odd perspective. Now it feels as though the medication had made it easier to lie to myself, had given me a false sense of confidence, and that I truly am as pathetic as I feel.

The reason this new perspective is odd comes from being aware of some sort of newfound duality within myself. On one hand, I consciously know I'm not as awful as I think I am and have always been my own worst critic anyway. On the other, loathing myself so deeply is so familiar that it seems right. When someone treats me unfairly, I immediately believe I must've done something to deserve it regardless of all the work I've done to get myself to believe otherwise.

Being off an antidepressant after feeling slightly better from taking it is a new form of hell I hadn't thought I'd ever know. Instead of being relatively even-tempered with occasional periods of sadness, I'm now angry and sad constantly. It's like being set off without the ability to ever calm down. Insignificant things are getting under my skin again, and I hate it.

A recent visit with my psychiatrist has left me feeling a little hopeful, though also skeptical. I'll be starting a different antidepressant that will possibly have a better outcome with less side effects than the one I had been taking. I don't even care if I have to take several different medications at once at this point, I just want some relief from hating myself and everything so much that it's mentally and physically exhausting.

Moving On/Out/Away

After three years of working in retail hell, I've finally landed a job that doesn't require me to deal with hundreds of people per day in a messy, chaotic environment. Most of my interactions with the public will be limited to the phone instead, and probably won't compel me to keep at least two bottles of hand sanitizer within reach at all times. It's a major change for the better, and I can't help but be just as terrified as I am excited to leave. The promise of working alongside one of my best friends offers some solace from the fear that this wonderful development is nothing more than a cruel joke, but one key question still remains     what if I'm just not good enough? Not clever enough? Not 'normal' enough?

All right, three questions. Still..

With one more day left at my old job, I find myself wondering what it'll be like to start from scratch in a new place again. My earliest experiences in retail were very uncomfortable, to the point of  making me feel like an awkward and unwelcome outsider. The only positive thing I can really draw from working there was the unexpected benefit of learning how to deal with the general public, as well as getting some sort of exposure therapy in the process. I'm not as socially anxious as I once was and I'm gradually learning how to connect with people on something deeper than a superficial level.

This new job represents more than just better pay and a better environment, though. So much hinges on having the means to support myself, not only financially but also emotionally. This is the first big step in the right direction, towards having a life that isn't overwhelming at every turn.

Contentment(?)

Recent events have lifted my mood over the past few days, bringing forth something entirely unfamiliar; something close to genuine happiness. Though, living in an obscenely over-cluttered house has still managed to taint everything with a sense of being stuck regardless of how hard I try to make progress. I still feel as though the process has been too slow. Getting to the point of feeling comfortable in a social setting after a lifetime of social anxiety or getting a much better job are things I feel I should've been able to do years ago. Nonetheless, I should feel happy about accomplishing them anyway, shouldn't I?

Being surrounded by piles of old newspapers and mail while being able to hear mice gnawing away at the walls always has a way of overshadowing anything positive that might happen. When facing a difficult situation such as living in an unfavorable environment, can one ever truly know what it feels like to be content?

Connection

Until recently, I firmly held onto the belief that erring on the side of being too aloof in social situations was better than putting myself out there and coming off as overbearing. The fear of being seen as annoying or unlikeable often made me avoid anything that involved more than two people. It made me dread work and parties of any kind, and it still does, but I've realized there's the possibility that I just haven't had enough exposure to socializing with the right kind of people. People that are actually mature, genuine and accepting.

"Normal"

Everyone has a different interpretation of what 'normal' is. At its most basic, the meaning of having a normal life would include having a safe place to live, enough food to eat and little to no concern about the possibility of facing injury or death as a result of one's evironment. I do not have a normal life.

In my life, things happen that most people wouldn't even be able to make up if they tried. For example, as unsurprising as it is that the hoard has also taken over my mother's car, the way this affects everything else is unfathomable. She can't park anywhere near the front door of a restaurant, store or relative's house because someone might see what a humiliating state the car is in. She recently spent twenty minutes trying to decide where to park, as well as think of a cover story to explain why we parked so far from where we had agreed to meet my friend and her mother. Thinking of the perfect lie to hide the embarrassing truth is her version of 'normal'.

Obsessive-Compulsive Explosive Depression

Living in a house filled beyond its capacity with useless crap isn't just difficult for someone that's dealt with OCD for the majority of their life. To put it lightly, it's traumatic. There are triggers everywhere and no 'safe' place to go to, which means I tend to deal with the issue by not dealing with it at all. All the anxiety, frustration and anger gets bottled up until something finally sends me over the edge, and being set off turns me into some sort of wild animal that screams and curses a lot.

Part of me feels completely justified in being angry that there are mice leaving little 'presents' on my furniture, while somewhere else there's a nagging feeling that maybe I'm making a big fuss over nothing. That self doubt permeates absolutely every thought I have, it minimizes things that I know are too serious to keep ignoring. It tells me things are just fine the way they are, and that I'm just being selfish for ever feeling otherwise.

Self-Diagnosis

Being intensely interested in psychology as a future career path lends a unique point of view when it comes to having depression, rather than being the one treating someone else with depression. It's easy to come to a conclusion and suddenly think 'Oh god, am I bipolar? Narcissistic? Autistic?' At one point I thought I had been all of those, and it was only with thorough research and therapy that I realized it wasn't the least bit true. Self-hatred and paranoia probably led me to believe it, because I do tend to assume the worst and constantly feel as though there's something horribly wrong with me.

I've also learned over the last ten months that being diagnosed with any kind of mental disorder doesn't automatically mean anyone's a bad person, or weak, or that they don't have their shit together. It varies, and knowing that makes getting out of a depressive rut seem a little bit easier because I know it doesn't define who I am. My circumstances and childhood influences may have fucked me up, but who I am isn't fucked up.

On Self-Worth

In the last ten months since beginning therapy, my opinion on several things concerning myself has been questioned and even reconsidered. Am I really as unintelligent, ugly, or annoying as I feel I am? I've been told the opposite on different occasions, and yet my own opinion of myself has stubbornly remained the same.

Through a lot (and I mean a LOT) of introspection, I've come to realize that my understanding of self worth is very skewed, and tied directly to feelings of depression rather than some immediate outside source. Regardless of how often someone tells me their opinion is very opposite from my own, I still loathe myself deeply. It ebbs and flows with the depression, worsening when I'm feeling at my lowest. Yet even on good days it's still there, just not so overwhelming to the point that I begin to question the point of my own existence. I often wonder what's preventing me from moving on from this, which has undoubtedly held me back from achieving all the things I'd like to eventually accomplish. It causes me to fall into old patterns of self-sabotage, and what's worrying is that I'm still comfortable in that state. It's familiar in all its dark doom and gloom, like an old sweater that I just can't bear to throw away for some inexplicable reason.

Finding Middle Ground

My favorite color is grey. My first color of choice for clothes, shoes, and everything else one can possibly own is usually some variant of grey. So why am I having so much trouble finding it in intangible things like relationships and friendship? Seeing life in black and white absolutes has left me with no other option than to consciously learn how to find the grey area between perfection and failure, too little and too much, or completely broken and positively normal.

I've never been the type of person to willingly divulge anything personal to anyone I hadn't already known for a very, very long time. Even then, opening up was and still is difficult. I had learned to hide everything. Every emotion, every fear and even most of my own basic needs beyond food. At a young age I decided I was going to be an independent person and do things on my own, because no one else was there to do them for me. I was determined to be self-reliant because relying on someone else left too much up to chance. The result was a disaster. The very idea of a deep emotional connection to anyone was terrifying, because it meant I'd have to let them in and let them see the true me. I loathed the 'true' me, and by my twisted form of logic, I figured everyone else would too.

At the moment, I'm attempting to work through my own issues while simultaneously managing to survive in a house so cluttered that only two of the nine rooms are livable. The kitchen is not one of those two, and growing up in the chaotic environment of a hoarder mother and abusive father exacerbated everything. I've suffered from OCD for a very long time; rituals and the need to count everything in multiples of four became full-blown neatfreakness. Introversion morphed into codependency, and instilled in me a fear that opening up  and making my unhappiness known would result in everyone finding out the horrible truth and blaming me for it. It took years to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't doing as well as I thought, and maybe getting some professional help really was the only way I'd be able to figure out how to get past whatever had been holding me back.

It didn't take long after starting therapy to realize that I'd spent the majority of my life as an emotionally stunted individual, and started to feel as though I'd been missing out on a lot of basic things that most people don't even give a passing thought. Things such as telling someone close a deep, dark secret and not being immediately ridiculed or invalidated for it.

I expect this process to take a long time, considering it's only been nine months thus far. But maybe one day in the not too distant future, I'll be able to move on and move the fuck out of here so I can concentrate on living a 'normal' life.