The Final Frontier(s)

It had previously been my intention to break up the posts about my depression (because depressing!) with something unrelated and opinionated. It was, spoiler alert, going to be a post about the degradation of the media with specific emphasis on sensationalism and the slangifying of language. That post will come, I don't doubt. Probably over Christmas when I'm feeling better.

But I'm not feeling better these days. I'm actually feeling much, much worse.

Allow me another metaphor about water.

As I mentioned in a previous post, depression lies. I know this. And when I'm more of a functioning human being, when I'm winning and not depression, I can shake it off. "That isn't true," I say to depression's ugly, stupid face. "That, in fact, is a downright lie." And depression, caught red-handed, shuts up for a while.

Consider, gentle reader, the ocean and space.

Uh-oh. I already have two different ways this metaphor can go. Let's do them one at a time, shall we?

The Ocean and Space: Option 1.

In this option, we find my original metaphor about the ocean in which I have added in space to make a point about the distance between where I am and happiness. I guess. Now I'm thinking this isn't the metaphor I wanted it to be. Whatever. Here we go.

This picks up where the drowning metaphor left off. I am sinking. Down, down, down I go, head not really even above water any more. But I'm still alive. And I'm dropping fast. Sinking like a diver with lead in her belt.

The ocean is a seemingly endless abyss. I know through my schooling that there is, at some point, a rock bottom. It's down there. In the blacker-than-blackness. And there there be monsters. I am headed straight for it, but I'm still swimming desperately for the surface when I can find the strength and energy.

The ocean. The further I go down, the darker it gets and I can't breathe. The air I'm holding in my lungs is burning to be exchanged. And the pressure is building all around me. In this world, depression is king. An opportunistic shark in a feeding frenzy. The thrashing has him circling me, waiting for my will to ebb, and then he strikes, leaving me bloody and a little less than I was before.

In this world, it is easy to believe depression's lies. Depression knows this and depression insidiously expounds.

(I'm very dramatic when I write. But this is also the truth.)

"You're not as good as that person. You shouldn't even bother to try to do that thing."
"You're never going to get anywhere with this. You're mediocre at best."
"Hear these good things they're saying about this person? Nobody's ever said those things about you. Nobody's going to."
"You're never going to be happy or functioning."
"Nobody is ever going to love you. You're never going to be in a relationship."
"Nobody cares about you."
"You will always feel like this. You will always be this girl."

And I can't breathe and the world is pressing in with more and more force and I panic. And I cry.

This is where I am, headed toward the center of the Earth unstoppably while most people are in the normal pressure of the world we know, in the sunlight, cooking, making love, experiencing life. Some lucky people are even further than that, up in the atmosphere where the pressure is less: happy.


That's option 1. This was my original intent.


Yesterday, I met my new therapist for the first time after a month-long ordeal of being screwed over repeatedly by the guy who did my intake (not my therapist). It's a start. I have an appointment to get medication before I go home for Christmas. I've been joking that by the time I get back from Texas in January, I'll be on dry land again. Well. Probably I'll be a castaway, washed up on the beach, coughing up salt water.

But that's better than pulling a Jack Dawson.


The Ocean and Space: Option 2.

My therapist, as I was informed yesterday, is not an all-talk therapist like I've had previously. My therapist is specifically a trauma therapist which is probably the best thing that could have been assigned to me, I think.

Yesterday being our initial meeting, we had a discussion (among other things) about her approach.

First, she solidified our relationship with this quote:

"I'm a trauma therapist, so we're going to be talking a lot about the nervous system and neuroscience. I can tell you're an academic."

SOLD. Guys, I didn't even have to tell her (like I normally do) about how smart I am, look at all my smarts, these are my smarts, did I mention I'm smart? She just knew. Ten points to Gryffindor.

Also: science. I love science.

Then she said what was more important. She described what is called the "window of tolerance" (LAND, GUYS) in which I would find the equilibrium of being a healthy, functioning human being that I so desperately seek. Then she explained how above this is a state of hyperstimulation (SPACE, GUYS), which is where we feel like there's too much going on and we can't deal with it and we start to panic. That's anxiety. Then she explained that below the window is hypostimulation (THE OCEAN, GUYS), which is depression and lethargy and, if we were in The Phantom Tollbooth, The Doldrums.

What we're going to be working on, according to my therapist, is my ability to successfully modulate my nervous system into the window of tolerance on my own whenever I feel that I am headed in either extreme direction.

"How does that sound?" she asked.

"Um, amazing."


In science and exploration, the ocean and space have both been described as The Final Frontier. I've lived in both for years. I can't wait to boldly go...where almost everyone else has gone before. That is my continuing mission. That is my greatest adventure.