The day after I published my last blog post, I stumbled across this article about a recent study on the brains of people with clinical depression. It’s not very long, if you want to read it. Briefly, researchers in China and the UK discovered that the reward centers in the brains of depressed people don’t work the same way as they do in people who aren’t depressed. When a depressed person does an activity that’s supposed to be rewarding, they don’t feel any gratification; in fact, they feel almost the opposite. In addition, negative experience hangs around longer in the brain and is harder to dismiss.
In light of my speaking of these very issues in my last post, I found this quite interesting, if not reassuring. Yes, it’s true: I don’t get any gratification from positive experiences. My brain is wired not to.
Well, that’s just great. How do you work with something like that? How do you move forward?
The question of how to move forward has been on my mind a lot, anyway. The other night, my husband and I watched the season premiere of Supergirl–we’re big fans of the current lineup of DC superhero shows on the CW network. At one point, Cat Grant, the CEO of CatCo, where Supergirl works in her alter ego as Kara Danvers, sits Kara down for a lecture. To paraphrase, she says, “Right now you have all kinds of options and you’re not taking the plunge because you’re afraid to leave your comfort zone and face change.” The speech hit me in a sore spot. I wondered if it applied to me.
The truth is, I’m afraid a lot of the time. I get up in the morning, drink my coffee, scan the headlines and check the notifications that have come in overnight. And then I’m paralyzed. What do I do next? Having an appointment or a plan for the day can get me a long way, at least for a while. Too much structure, too many days in a row–or even in a week–when I have to keep a schedule drive me around the twist. I start thinking things like, “Okay, you just have to get through [X] more [days, hours, etc] and then you don’t have to do this anymore.” This inevitably leads me to question why, if I have to coach myself through every activity, if I find it so abhorrent that I long NOT to be doing it, I engaged in it in the first place. Which is why I stopped going to the gym after a few weeks. I didn’t hate it, but I reached the point of coaching myself, of telling myself afterward, “There, you don’t have to go for another two days, it’s okay.” I don’t like engaging in activities that end with my crying inside.
I can do necessary things most of the time. Things like laundry and washing dishes. Things that don’t take a whole lot of connection or effort. I don’t expect anything from them, and they don’t actively hurt. Other things, though…I remember it wasn’t that long ago that I was making jelly and feeling fairly good about it, but it seems like something that happened to a different person in a story I was told. And I don’t know if that person was “normal,” or took control of me due to medication-induced hypomania, or what. I once said on Twitter that when I’m hypomanic, I imagine that’s what normal people feel like all the time. I got a lot of pushback–“Mania isn’t normal!”–so I don’t know. About the same time my meds got lowered, I caught a cold or something; anyway, the sinus trouble flared up, and it’s caused some fairly bad asthma. I just don’t feel GOOD. I have no energy and no motivation and I’m tired all the damn time.
Anyway. I end up frittering a lot of time away. I play casual games and surf the Internet, and before I know it, it’s three or four in the afternoon and I’m still not dressed. And on the one hand, I feel intensely guilty about this. But on the other, I don’t care all that much. If there were anything I wanted to do, I’m pretty sure I could do it. I just don’t want to do anything. Unlike Kara Danvers, I don’t have a bunch of exciting options to pursue. I don’t believe anything is going to make a positive difference in my life.
That’s what terrifies me, I think. Very little is pleasurable in and of itself, and none of it leads anywhere. Every impulse toward motion is followed by the inevitable “And then what? What difference will it make? What meaning does it have?” Nothing, and nothing, and nothing. Through my life, my motivation has come from two things: Self hate, and hope for the future. I don’t hate myself anymore, or I don’t most of the time and when it flares up I can let it go, or at least not indulge in it. I don’t have any hope for the future. Things I’ve wanted, either I’ve achieved them and they’ve meant nothing, or I’ve made it partway before hitting an insurmountable obstacle, or they’re impossible. I know we’re “supposed to” live more in the present, but my present sucks. When the meds are working, it isn’t as bad. Sometimes I do enjoy things. I can’t feel that now, but I remember having felt it. That’s the purpose of antidepressants: to relieve the overwhelming misery of the present so you can work on deeper issues. I have the misfortune of having reduced my meds by mistake (essentially) at the same time as I hit the worst of the pain at my core. It’s left me stuck, frozen. Unable to see past the unbearable now.
I’d like to make a visible and positive impact on something, somewhere. I suppose that’s why I changed my mind from not wanting children when I was young to wanting them so much. I think I would have been a good parent despite my mental health issues, and I would have raised forward-thinking and compassionate kids. But even more than I want to make an impact, I want something to impact me for more than a moment. I crave a real connection. Instead, I’m an alien in human skin. If anyone sees beneath the surface, they don’t let on. Maybe it’s my own fault; maybe I learned camouflage too well. Or maybe I just can’t tell. Maybe in learning to live with negative things, I’ve closed myself to the positive. I don’t think that’s the case, but it’s possible. I’ve had too much experience of joy turned unexpectedly into grief. Sorrow is constant; joy is ephemeral.
When my husband is overwhelmed, I advise him to pick a direction, any direction, and move forward. Complete one task, then move to another. I’d follow my own advice, but I’m not overwhelmed. I’m underwhelmed, and fear prevents me from connecting to anything that might be engaging on a deep level. What if I muster the faith for another go, what if I summon the will to move toward something anything, even if right now it doesn’t excite me, and nothing changes again? What if I challenge my fear and my life is no different? What if no one notices or cares? You can only do so much personal work before you need outside validation, reassurance that it’s worth something. Long ago, speaking about writing, a therapist (not a very good one) told me I shouldn’t write for validation; I should write because I love it. I told her plants don’t live to get watered, but if someone doesn’t water them, they die all the same.
Lately, my horoscope has been full of messages about “standing on the edge of a precipice about to take the plunge into a new life.” It may be right. I fear I’m going to remain frozen unless and until I have some guarantee there’s someone at the bottom to catch me.