depression

The Holes We Can’t See.

| Betsy

I’m waiting in the car dealership. My car alarm has being going off at random, pissing off my neighbors as well as myself. There’s a guy yelling at his wife in either Ukrainian or Russian and the television is on the news which is warning us (always warning us!) and informing us of war, fire, 9/11, fear, terror, sturm und drang, good, evil. The businessman is finally off the phone, where he was talking of meetings and sales and circuits and tradeshows and now he’s just staring at the cheap carpet, his hand resting on his chin, his phone still held up to his ear. It’s raining outside and the Ukrainian (or Russian) woman sighs loudly.

I have emails to answer and am so behind trying to do so much at once, frustrated that I’m not able to answer students anymore (well, I do, but there’s a looong response time) or sleep enough or fully concentrate on my volunteering or research what I want because I’m working full time and the day to day life that we all encounter loves to get in and muck things up. It mucks all of us up. We’re all yelling or sighing or staring at the carpet in some way, even if we don’t look like it from the outside.

Lately I’ve had more time out because I’m still somewhat getting used to my “new normal,” from the fact that I lost a great part of the last 15 years of my life to depression and anxiety. Told what I thought was 100% was actually 80% most the time, dipping down to 60% for periods of up to 3-4 months and that literally I was going to have to “re-learn how to be happy.” That there was a reason why my relationships, energy, sleep, and everything else suffered, all down to a little pill that needed to be switched to another pill to react not just with my serotonin levels, but also my norepinephrine. And all those years I read self-help books, pored through Buddhist texts, crafted, meditated, exercised, took supplements, cried, prayed, screamed, hid, and most of all, learned.

And I wonder what I can take from all those years as I move forward with my life. The irony of helping myself get better with craft… And then be told later, that wait, there’s a better better than better. That I would be able to be the same self I was in 1993, but then look in the mirror and it would be 2011. As I work on research and speak and write about the voiceless people who use craft in less fortunate companies to speak out, I feel so fortunate, but also a mix of shiny and new and well worn. I may not know much about being at war, being hungry, being homeless, being so many things. But I do know about being sad, being unable to form the words (although luckily I have the great fortune to be able to speak them publicly), being frozen in terror on a hair trigger, being lost, being lonely, being unable to get out of bed, being able to feel the touch of a loved one (new or old).

We know how to fix things that are broken that we can see, we can see the leak stopped, hole repaired, cut bandaged, mess cleaned up. But what about the the broken things we cannot see? The ones that inhabit our insides, the ones we can’t bandage or see concretely mended? Well, for one, we talk about it. We continue to love and learn and laugh and grow and ask and hug and move forward. We hope that better things will come, whether that’s that someone will finally understand or hold us until we sleep at night or cry with us or hold our hand or something else entirely (or all those things together).

We stand strong when the waves of sadness or terror or panic or fear wash through us, knowing that they are just that, they are waves. They will wash through us, they may knock us down, but they will not destroy us. We speak out instead of keep quiet, whether that’s going public or telling a loved one or telling your dog or making a craft. We do it for ourselves, both now and present, and we do it for all the others that aren’t able to do so yet… Because the more we do that, the stronger we become, both ourselves and our arsenal of coping, and the more we are able to help others.

And most importantly, we realize (and internalize and process) that we are not alone.

xx

Parable.

| Betsy

So this post isn’t so craft-related. It’s people related. Since I see craft as one of the ways to connect with people and like exploring the ways people connect, it fit together in my head. (If you disagree, there are some lovely older posts about craft here. Go forth and explore!) Lately I’ve had some extra time on my hands as I’ve been doing a lot of driving alone in the car. It’s led me to rethink the paths I’ve taken in my life. It’s amazing how family emergencies can lead to these sorts of thoughts.

Somewhere in the middle of the Georgia swamps, I thought about growing up and not understanding why my body would revolt and freeze up sometimes. And it was weird, and I had no idea what was happening. Then later came depression, which is a bit like having a wet wool blanket over you at all times. It’s cumbersome, thick and somewhat stinky, but despite your best efforts, it’s still there. The worst part of it was how I related to people. There’s nothing strange about why I became a sociologist and a writer, as all those years I felt like an observer to everyone else’s life. I was in the room, at the table, in the kiss, holding hands, on the soccer field, I was everywhere. But at the same time, I often wasn’t there at all.

When you feel apart from everyone and watch your loved ones grow old together and your friends get married and children are born, all the happy joys of life, it’s as if you’re a stenographer not someone close. When it happens for over a decade you begin to wonder what the silver lining is. There was a pulse you were missing, a wall you had up, a barrier holding firm.

So you move and you travel and you search and search and search for a way through. You want to feel the touch, get the joke and move forward, too. And you worry about other people’s problems so you don’t have to feel your own. You get to see some really cool things and have lots of adventures! Even more importantly, you begin to forget that there’s a distance. Then you cool down a bit and stay in one place for a few years and begin to remember the distance and all the annoyance it’s caused.

Then one day, as you’re rushing down the highway trying to get to someone you care about, and navigating labyrinth hospital halls, and trying to find the right room among all the doors surrounding you, you realize. It’s not in the faces of the nurses or the other patients in the room. It’s on the face of the one you came to see, smiling to see you. And suddenly, you realize the wall isn’t there and you’re in the moment instead of just taking notes. And the moment, even though it’s in a hospital and scary in its reality, has a pulse and a beat…and not just the ones emanating from the machines and monitors either.

As you might have already guessed, the wall that used to be there was already long gone, you just needed to trust in the future enough to take a step forward instead of standing still. It wasn’t magic or luck or good timing, it was making the choice to put one foot squarely in front of the other and not being afraid to look ahead. Holding hands and hugging close never felt so good.

And for the compassion, patience and empathy all of this has brought me? Well, the learning curve wasn’t much fun and it could have lasted a much shorter time, but I don’t wish it happened any other way. It’s what makes the little things more special, the days more exciting and the world multi-colored instead of like blancmange. Sometimes people wonder why and how I light up at the littlest of things, but now that they’re here and I’m here with them, these small details and extras are nothing but tiny joys. So, the long way round, I found the silver lining, and it’s pretty freakin’ sweet.