Keeping Up Appearances By Tangela Williams-Spann (@Twillspann)

I knew when I woke up, the day was going to be an issue. 

I knew I was headed toward a depressive episode. My energy had been changing over the past few days and I could feel my plane beginning to descend. However, I knew what was on the agenda and I had to be in front of people for a few hours. I steeled myself for the day ahead of me.  

As I moved through the world that morning, I was met with smiling faces and pleasant voices.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Tangie!”

“Hey, you too.” 

My mask of false happiness was firmly in place. Pretending to be just like everyone else was a skill I’ve perfected over the years. I was somewhat prepared for this. I went along giving pleasantries and false smiles as much as I could until my strength gave out. After a couple of hours of watching families celebrating their matriarchs, I couldn’t be bothered to maintain appearances anymore. I fast-walked back to my car and choked down sobs until I got home.

Mother’s Day happens regularly. My mother, who is amazing, was ready and I exchanged gifts with her the day before. It’s one of those days that people can plan for and prepare themselves accordingly

Some people anyway. 

My husband and son had opted to be unprepared. 

I told them that I was wasn’t mad; that I hadn’t expected much from them anyway. Which was only a half-truth. I was expecting nothing and that was what I received. Shouldn’t have been a big deal. Normally, it wouldn’t have been, but my mood was bottoming.

Clinical depression is one of the most common mental illnesses. More than 3 million cases are diagnosed in the U.S. every year. It comes in a variety of forms and can be aggravated even more by life’s circumstances. You might already hate yourself when the seasons decide to change. Now, it’s a struggle to leave your bedroom for 3-6 months. Depression makes you question your ability to behave as a functioning human being. Toss a newborn into the mix, and you shut down when you realize that you are responsible for keeping this tiny human alive when you were having trouble doing that for yourself. 

It isn’t to be confused with normal sadness. Your cat might run away. You get a flat tire on the way to work. Your boss is a jerk. Things happen and can get you down. However, the difference comes in how long you remain in your sadness. You must remain in the same headspace most of the time for at least two weeks to be considered depressed. Depressive episodes can last for weeks, months, or years at a time. Usually, being retriggered by life’s events. 

Another tricky thing about depression is that it presents in many ways. Most people would recognize the overwhelming sadness as depression, but it looks different for everyone. Certain people stop caring about things that they love. Others might stop eating or taking care of themselves. Additional symptoms of depression include:

• Irritability

• Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, or helplessness

• Decreased Energy or Fatigue

• Difficulty concentrating or making decisions

• Difficulty sleeping or sleeping too much

• Restlessness

• Aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems without a clear physical cause and/or that do not ease even with treatment

• Increase or decrease in appetite

• Thoughts of death or suicide

If you notice any of these symptoms persisting for two weeks or longer, please contact a medical professional. There are a variety of treatments available depending on the severity of your depression. Especially, if you are thinking about suicide. That is a very final solution to a temporary problem. Please seek help if you are having thoughts of suicide or self-harm. There are a plethora of helplines with trained people to listen to your concerns. 

I’ve sought treatment for my depression for years and I can say that it is mostly under control. The combination of talk therapy and medication helps me to get through most days. Despite this, I’m still human and I still have rough times. There are days when I hate myself. Days that I want nothing more than to stay locked in my bedroom and I forget to eat. 

There are days when I can’t put up the fight to remain happy and I sink into self-loathing. I call this condition “bottoming” and due to my years of tracking my habits, I can tell when it happens. I also have a plan to tackle it. I created a self-care plan for myself when the world becomes too much. 

I am prepared and as a result, I know what I need to do for myself.

Before I get to the “don’t look at me ever again” phase, I have a heated blanket at my desk that I can become a burrito with. I keep an emergency supply of hot chocolate over my stove. I have video games and movies readily available when I don’t think staying alive is worth the trouble. In my case, distraction is the name of the game. I must keep myself out of my head to survive.

After my teary drive home, I prepared myself some hot chocolate and made a delivery order for a dozen chocolate chip cookies. I picked out a book from my shelf and wrapped myself up in my heated blanket. If no one else was going to make me a priority, I guess I would have to. 

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Tangela Williams-Spann on Twitter @Twillspann.

The Joy Hoard By Beth Hudson (@TFiredrake)

I’ve learned from battling chronic depression that I need to be very aware of what brings me joy. I hoard joy, because I never know when I may need to be reminded of its presence. And there are so many things that fit into that box on the shelf, like a childhood toy chest that keeps treasures from long ago.

To me, joy is usually a deep content, an upwelling of peace and the sense that everything is right with my world. Those are the quiet moments, which are as simple as they are beautiful: a fresh snowfall on New Year’s Eve; the shine of autumn leaves in a gentle rainstorm; the glitter of water in a large, still lake.

Laughter with friends. Ordering takeout on a night when I’m bone weary. A long, hot, soaking bubble bath. Early morning sunrise, streaks of pink and orange striping the sky like melting sherbet.

What usually comes with these times is a lessening of urgency, of the sense that there are things that have to be done to make things right. It is about allowing myself simply to be, not to constantly do. I haven’t forgotten for a minute that the world is an imperfect place, and that there is a tremendous amount of suffering in it; I’ve just let myself acknowledge for a little while that I’m allowed space for myself, too.

Surrounding myself with certain kinds of things, tangible or not, can help to enhance that sense of joy. Beautiful and moving music can take me there faster than anything else, though it’s not a guarantee; sometimes music tugs so hard at my heart that it shakes loose all the pain of living. Reading can also do either of these. And frankly, it’s all right when it squeezes out the pain instead of the joy, because sometimes I don’t let myself feel enough. Often, I let myself slide over pain and joy both, and lose the joy because I’m afraid to experience the pain.

I seldom have active joy, the kind that makes me laugh in delight and excitement and crow to the world that something has gone wonderfully well. Still, I’m not utterly devoid of it. Those surges of joy light up the darkness like lightning flashes. When I was first asked for a novella from my short story editor, I was profoundly joyful. When my son finally got engaged to his long-time girlfriend, I was ecstatic. When I gave birth to my three children… words may be my trade, but there are no words I can use to fully describe the exultation I felt on bringing those lives into the world. It was when I truly understood that lightning really was hotter than the surface of the sun.

I think those kinds of joys are about accomplishment and love, both of which I struggle to accept.

As a writer, I will sometimes open that box to take out the memory of a treasured joy and lay it like a gem into the setting of my stories. I write a lot about pain and trauma, but it’s important to have those bright moments flash into the darkness, because they remind the characters—and the reader—what their struggles are for. And sometimes I’ll give my characters those brilliant, lightning joys and not take them away, because they give characters and the readers alike something to hope for. Real joy isn’t unadulterated, because life itself isn’t unmixed. I want my stories to have that truth in them, but my box may sometimes be a bit like Pandora’s, and contain hope.

And occasionally I will open that box for myself and take out those memories, setting them on the shelf to polish until they’re glistening, and reminding me that joy is always part of the world, even if I sometimes have trouble recognizing it.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Beth Hudson on Twitter @TFiredrake.