The Dirt Field

Roughly two years ago, I was diagnosed with depression and prescribed an antidepressant to fix my chemical imbalance. I’m not sure how much actual diagnosis was truly involved in that process; I went to my general practitioner after crying for the thousandth day straight because, oh, I don’t know, the sun came up? The wind blew? When the doctor asked me why I was there, I explained in as few words as possible that I felt sad (word economy minimized the opportunities for embarrassing sobbing), and he scribbled a prescription for a medication that I’ve taken daily ever since. We went really deep that day.

About six months ago, I started toying with the frequency at which I took the medication (every other day, every three days, every day that I cried or threw things more than twice) until I realized that the only dose that kept my sanity in town was the daily one. Things progressed smoothly until several weeks ago, when I ran low on my medication and tried to go without for several days. At first, I felt great, happy even, and I relished my lack of chemical dependency. Then on the fourth day, I couldn’t move and started crying at the first suggestion of having to put on clothes, do my workout, or act like a reasonable adult. The tears, they are my body’s way of disagreeing with something my mind knows we ought to be doing.

Bobby stepped in at that point and gave me my pill and sat with me until I was sane again (he may still be sitting there waiting), and I was stabilized for the time being. I stayed medicated until the other day, when I fell asleep before taking my nightly dose and cracked immediately the following afternoon. Once again, Bobby handed me my medicine, got me up and moving, and helped me accomplish what I had to that day that I was unable to do on my own, and things have been relatively normal ever since.

I think, however, that my “normal” needs to be evaluated by somebody other than me in the near future. Depression is an amorphous disease that manifests in different people in different ways, so it’s hard to say what is and is not a symptom of depression, but I think I might go just a little bit left of depression. It’s difficult to determine because the overwhelming tendency is to either think, “I’m fine; this is just a bad mood,” or, “There is a very real possibility that I am out of my mind.”

The best way for me to figure out what is wrong is to write about it; talking isn’t very helpful because the words form in my head, come down to my tongue, and then die on my lips before I can say them. “I’m going to stab myself in the face soon,” might come out as, “My, aren’t things stressful today.” I suppose I could write about this in a diary that only I see, but I think there is something helpful about being open about issues like this. Depression and related disorders are not things I believe should be kept private, and I like knowing that you know how I feel and that if you feel the same way, you are not alone. My seven other personalities and I can totally sympathize.

So anyways, there are several things that I have noticed about myself lately that I believe are no longer within the spectrum of normal. First, there is the guilt. Each day, I mentally tell myself that I need to be productive at work, fit in a good workout as part of my training, and write on my blog. There are also other everyday tasks that I expect to complete, but The Trifecta is the most important. And at the end of each day, I feel guilty about the things that I inevitably did not finish. Didn’t write on the blog? Guilt. Didn’t do a workout? Guilt. Regardless of what I did accomplish (ran thirty miles, worked for nine hours straight, drank 130 oz of water and ate only green foods), I go to bed feeling anxious and guilty about one thing I did not do.

I know that everyone deals with not having enough time, but I think there should be some satisfaction at the end of each day in at least having done some things. I don’t have that, because I always end up eating a candy bar or not doing the laundry or forgetting to scrape the mold off the rafters in the attic. There is always something that I regret about each day, which sort of sucks when you’re going on the fourth or fifth month of feeling that way. If I was Michelangelo and had finally finished the Sistine Chapel, I’d just be pissed that I hadn’t managed to paint the doors, too.

The second thing I’m concerned about is the anxiety and overwhelming stress I feel almost constantly. I don’t think my life is any more complicated or difficult than anyone else’s, which makes me wonder why I always feel like I am one thought short of a brain hemorrhage. Even at night, when I am lying in bed trying to sleep, I start thinking…I left my shoes in the car. And that box of chocolates. I ate three of them today. Three. I might as well just butter my thighs. And I haven’t cleaned my car in ages. I need to vacuum it. And I need to call the optometrist to get glasses. Glasses, shit. Those are expensive. I’ll have to budget for them. I forgot to balance my budget today. And so on and so on, until the hamster running on the wheel inside my head has an epileptic seizure. I’m going to request that my headstone read HERE LIES LINDSAY; SHE STILL HAS YET TO CALL THE INSURANCE COMPANY. AND PICK UP SOAP AT THE GROCERY STORE.

Between the constant feeling that there is so much to do that will never get done, the endless guilt about not getting these things done, and the depression that makes getting motivated to do anything difficult, I feel like a rapidly derailing train. This has made keeping up with my training and my everyday life very challenging. I also know I am very difficult to deal with, what with the mood swings and the huge helping of CRAZY I bring with me everywhere I go. Sometimes I get so angry and feel so frustrated with everything that anyone who dares step within my circle of fury (known as Earth) gets immediately incinerated by my fiery rage. It’s such a weird feeling, too, because I know in my mind that I’m battling with my issues and not truly angry at that person, but when I open my mouth to say I’m sorry, something more like WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID WHY MUST YOU SPEAK TO ME comes out. By this point, Bobby should be canonized for all the times he has patiently explained that I am not going to die of misery and all the times he has willingly accepted me snarling I HATE YOU, GO AWAY.

I have gotten to the point, however, where my head issues are making it too difficult to pursue my goals, and that is the point at which I’m hoping I draw the line. There are days where I can’t bear the idea of brushing my teeth again and responding to emails again because WHY BOTHER I’m just going to have to do it all again tomorrow and the day after that too. But worse, there are days where I feel that way about my training and my workouts, times where I sit on the weight bench in the basement and bawl loudly because I can’t stand the boring, depressing monotony of another workout. I don’t think crying your way through exercises is part of the Handbook For Future Olympians, and it is certainly not a plan I want to carry into the new year.

It seems silly that the one thing that may finally motivate me to deal with my mental health is not my inability to function like a normal person but rather my desire to ride my bicycle better, but if that’s what it takes, so be it. If you’re anywhere near being in my shoes (other than having my supreme pity for your unfortunately large feet), I wish you the best of luck in finding what motivates you as well.