Reaching Out of Your Mind.

 Tis the season 

when sadness looms, when despair overwhelms, when the light is literally gone or going, when life becomes filled with dark, cold, empty spaces.

When many of us retreat so far into ourselves that the corridor has closed behind us and we are stuck in a place with no door, no window, and no way out.

All we can see is the can'ts, wont's, don'ts. 

We do not want anyone to know how far, how remote we've become. We pretend we're fine. We smile and make jokes when with others so they won't know how bad things are with us. 

It's a time of year for joy and love. For literal warmth. For family huddling together in their caves until the world grows back into light and warmth of its own. 

As happens when this season rolls around, there are many suicides and suicide attempts. Sometimes the mind collapses in on itself like a pile of so much rubble.

That Which Survives is buried, with pressure pressing all around. Pressing, pushing. compressing, making us smaller and more ineffective.

Recent suicides in my area have sprouted a lot of conversation on social media. 

The messages are, or should be, hopeful, cheering, encouraging, optimistic. 

For the most part, that is what they are --

to the ones not reduced to rubble in the dark places of their own souls. 

Depression is a disease with many forms, many and varied symptoms, and a whole lot of unknowns. We, as a society, are finally acknowledging the disease aspect of this, and we even think we know how to help. 

All the patient needs to do, is reach out, ask for help. Anyone can do that, right?

Well, no. 

No one expects someone with a high fever and delirium to be walking around and talking sense. 

No one expects the starving man or the thirsty child, so ill that any movement exhausts the energy in their muscles to the point of pain and unconsciousness, to get up off the floor and walk to the nearest kitchen and fix themselves. Shouting at a pneumonia patient to just breathe (or cough) is NOT going to make the air go in any easier or more effectively. 

Yet this is exactly what you are asking of the lost souls buried in the dust, pebbles, rocks, bricks that are the rubble smothering and shredding them into components.

You ARE wonderful, opening yourself to the ill and offering to be their go-to when they need help. All they have to do is ask, or tell you of their need. 

Their disease prevents them from doing so. It is a symptom. 

They cannot ask.

They cannot reach.

It is not a matter of will.

It is not something they can do. 

It is a symptom of their disease. 

If you want to help, to prevent, to heal, YOU must be the one to watch for the symptoms, to reach out, to do the asking.

And it can be a helpless repetitive job. 

You may not get answers. 

You may get lies instead of truths. 

You may be ignored and you will probably be shut out.

Darkness does not allow the admission of light, because when light enters, darkness is no more.

Look around you, at the people you live with, work with, deal with. 

Are they being more quiet OR more noisy than is normal for them?

Are they preoccupied or often not occupied at all?

Are they just not themselves? 

Ask them.

If they don't answer, or return generic answers -- "Just got a lot on my mind" or "it's been a tough time" or even "I'm tired; that's all. -- ask again. 

Tell them you are here for them. 

Then be there. Helping hand extended.

They cannot ask. The disease prevents that.

They may not be able to respond, and you are going to have to wield the shovel and shift the rubble. You are going to have to use an ice pick to bore a hole through a solid wall to let in the ray of light. 

You will have to administer the treatment.

And they may fight you. Resist by non-response. That first beam of light can be painful to eyes that have too long endured the black blankness. Effective antibiotics can make an infection seem worse by declaring war on the invaders, who increase their numbers until the drug cuts off their reinforcements.

Do NOT say, they could've -- no, they couldn't. Their illness does not permit this.

Pay attention to behaviors, words, attitudes. 

If YOU care, you must, must, must be the one to reach out. 

Don't Know; Not Sure I Care Much

 I don't know what's wrong with me. 

i can't sleep and I can't stay awake. I lie in my recliner day and night like a giant sloth. I do very little, and nothing holds my interest. I usually read or write or work puzzles or do some kind of busyness. But it seems to be too much work to hold up a book, or to hold up my blob of a body and type or write.

It's definitely asking a lot of myself to do dishes or sweep the floors. Or go to the store.

Or put things away.

Or anything besides  nothing, as I wait for the next round of sleep to bless me with unawareness.

Yes, this all sounds like the old demon Depression. I'm already drugging that and it's been working. Or I thought it was. 

Anyway, I don't think that's the problem, but that particular demon can be a great deceiver.

This feels different. I don't really know how to explain it, but it feels like a metabolic malfunction. But when I see doctors, there is nothing provably wrong with me. Everything is testing out fine, and within my established norms. 

I try to keep myself busy, which is quite a trick when doing nothing. When I have plans, when I can help, I do so, with pleasure. 

And I really, really really wish I could go for a long walk on these quiet nights. 

But I can't.

The Rhythm

Yesterday's entry was NOT what I meant to write when I started out. It took off in an independent way that surprised even me.
Although, while my fingers were flying and I was wondering what the heck, the words and feelings coming up were true and honest and deeply felt.
That is why I let it stand.

But the faint persistent rhythm I had in mind was the daily rhythm of my life; perhaps my circadian rhythm.

The day begins around 4 when I am finishing up work. Home and playing on the computer, sometimes writing, until 6 or 7, depending on mood, fatigue, and insomnia.
Awake at 8 to make sure Hailey is getting started on getting ready for school. Most days I am mire observer than participant in this ritual, but some days I am fully involved.
Then, if Warren is still sleeping or sleepy, I can get some sleep. Depending on Warren, who loves to play with his mammaw, this can last to anywhere between 10 and 12.
About 2 I start feeling tired again and sometimes can nap, but usually not.
4 is time for Hailey to get home and I try to be awake for that, just so she knows I care.
5 is average suppertime, and time to eat and sleep.
7:15 time to get ready for work, which usually starts at 8.

I have tried to sleep through these days, or sometimes remain awake through them so that I can dramatically collapse at work or in the middle of a store, but I'm a darned failure at that type of self serving drama. The confounded infernal, persistent rhythm takes over and keeps me living my (somewhat boring; somewhat routine) life.

I don't like it.
Don't want it.
But there it is.

No Rhyme, but a Faint Persistent Rhythm

No reason.
No Rhyme.
No sense.

But, through it all, a rhythm persists. The emotional equivalent of a heartbeat. It may be slow and troubled. It may be clamorous. It may be nothing more than there, but it persists.

I watched my husband die. He couldn't breathe anymore, not effectively. But that big ol' strong loving heart of his kept on beating, in spite of everything else in him shutting down.

What a waste that was, once death was inevitable, and of his choosing. (He could have been kept alive, by a machine breathing for him. But being alive and living are two different (too different) things, and if he couldn't live, why remain artificially alive?)

But his heart didn't get that message, and it continued on.

That is where I am, emotionally.
I am worn out,
I am tired.
The joy is gone.
The curiosity us gone.
The drive is gone.

What remains is a beating heart, prolonging the torture of a nonexistent existence.

There is no life support machine for my dying parts (although grandchildren come close) and I'm not so certain I would choose a tethered artificial life anyway. Probably not.

Perhaps there is hope for a cure, or a remission. Some part must think so.
Too bad it isn't a part that knows anything.
Perhaps it is just a reluctance to leave the known for the unknown. Or just wanting to remain where we know love.

Whatever it is, the beat goes on.
Even when there is no hope.

Life and Love and Other Things

I have been trying to write of other things than my own problems. I don't want this blog to be a whining moaning list of things to complain about. I don't want it to be a pity party for me. I don't want it to be about me, specifically.

I want it to be about life in general. Politics, social media, diet, religion, education, children and grandchildren -- all the things that make up the array of things we grapple with from day to day. That's what I want.

For now, I can't seem to think beyond my own life-box. 

I'm stuck and I can't seem to move beyond these limitations.

Someday I will, I'm sure. 

Someday, I'll live again, love again, have opinions again, and I'll re-find my writer's voice.

Someday.

That day isn't yet.

I have many beginnings of ideas, thoughts, concepts to discuss. A recent facebook discussion inspired an article about the education system. But it remains unwritten, as headaches and busy-ness and the visitation of the demon build up walls faster than I can build windows. 

And forget about doors! There's no time for doors. 

The important thing is to keep a little light coming into this thick and sturdy box.

Why keep writing, then?

Well, that is the best way to poke holes in the wall and let a little light in.

Also, there may be someone out there that needs to read something like this.

Someone who needs to know there can be light in darkness.

Someone who needs to know that tears can cleanse as well as burn.

Someone who needs to know how someone else navigates the pitfalls of an empty life.

Someone who needs to know about hope, and choices, and giving up.

Someone who needs to know that, in spite of it all, there remains life, and love, and other things.

Welcome Armaggedon

I think it is time.
The world should end.
For all of us.

The only reason I can't end my own world is because I can't inflict that pain on Hailey. I can't even wish for my world to end, because I can't inflict that pain on Hailey.

But if the world itself came to an end, Hailey would be there, too.
No pain for her, whatever there might be in the next world.

If there is such a thing.

She could see her Mammaw Candy
She could run and laugh and play with her Pappaw. She could hold his hand and they could walk to the park together.
Something she has wished for.

And Warren, he could get to know his Pappaw. The man he brought smiles to, the man who had him laughing. The man he called first "a-a" and then "yaya" while now, months later, none of us have names yet.
The man who lit up when the boy was put in his arms.
The light of love and the light of happiness.
Laughter is oh so much that same light.


For myself, I want NOTHING.
Rest and peace and nothing.

I am broken.
I have been broken for a very long time.
I have been broken so long that I doubt I can be fixed.

Those that would fix me can't; those that could fix me (maybe) won't.

And it really doesn't matter.

But if the world were to end, the whole world, we could all be NOT sorry, NOT guilty, NOT alone;abandoned;hurting.


But, for now, the world goes on.
There will be yet another endless tomorrow.
And another.

What Am I?

I wonder.

When I lost my Rex, it seems that I lost a large part of my identity.

This wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't for the huge chunk of me that I lost when I lost my job and couldn't get another one.

Since then, life itself seems to be chipping away at the essential "me."

I got a job and couldn't do it.
I write but have no way to share.
Shared writing has become more difficult and less frequent.
When I do write by hand, my fingers and thumb go numb, and I have muscle spasms all the way up my arm.

I am no longer a wife.
I'm still a mother, but my children are grown. (One is something of a big baby, but she's becoming an adult at a greatly decelerated rate.)
I'm a grandmother, but I can rarely see or take care of the babies, due to economics  (I'm usually literally out of gas.)When I do have them, they frazzle me, and it's not so easy to just take them home. I don't really want to, anyway.

I'm a writer, but losing the physical ability to write.

I'm a friend, but I have little to offer or share with my friends, when I can even keep in touch with them.

So, I am wondering, what am I?

Sui-sides: My side

When I decide to die, it's not your fault. You are in no way responsible for my decision. It's MY decision.

When I choose to die, it won't be about you. I acknowledge that there will be a feeling that I didn't love you enough to live, and there will be a lot of wondering how could I do that to you. I say again, I can't say  often enough -- it's not about you.

I didn't love you enough?

First off, it is my great, great, overwhelming love for each and every one of you that has kept me going this long. Because I have loved you, I got up from my bed and cooked, and advised,  and even drove all over the countryside  because YOU NEEDED ME.
It is my love for you that keeps me trying.

My love for you has kept me going beyond all reason, beyond all sanity.

Sometimes, in the bad times, I resent that. I don't want held. I want free. Free to live my life  -- or NOT!

How could I do what, exactly, to you? End my life? Lay myself down to  a sleep where I won't have to go to the bathroom, or answer  the telephone, or do any of the many, many things that rob me of my rest, that steal peace from me?
How is that doing something to you? What makes you the star of my death?

I'm tired.
I'm sick.
I'm sick and tired.

I am also in pain. Mental, physical, emotional. Doesn't matter. I hurt.
I hurt, and you can't make that better, although  I know you want to.
I hurt, and healing is too hard. Another chore, another job, another effort.

It's not that you aren't worth  the effort -- you ARE.
It's just too hard, and it hurts too badly.

Finally.
I can't.
I just can't.

Not even you can make it worthwhile.

Give me rest.
Let me rest.

Suicide -- Nature or Nurture?

Does suicide run in families?
Why might suicide run in families?

 

Some observers think that there may be a more accepting attitude in families where this has happened.Or that it is more tolerated as being something of a family trait.
This is what scientists call the 'nurture' effect. (Actually, I doubt scientists call it that among themselves, but it's the general population understanding of what scientists call it. They probably refer to it ad "Environmental Effects of X on Y")


There may be something to this. If the inevitability is accepted,does that make it acceptable?
If a child grows up being told how much he is just like the charming, entertaining Uncle Waldo -- such a card! -- will he grow up to be another Uncle Waldo?
What if, after the show is over and the lights have gone down, Uncle Waldo couldn't live with his image or his heartbreak -- if Uncle Waldo committed suicide, will Uncle Waldo's relative then get a free pass to do the unthinkable?

It may help the surviving family to think so. There may be an easing of grief and guilt by blaming it on family history.
Family history may be to blame that symptoms went unacknowledged.. The reason why no help was sought, because the story is more lively than the backstory. Because the entertainment has more 'body' than the ending.

But how much of that is Nature. Depression is a physically caused illness that affects the mind. Depression runs in families. So far as I know, specific genes have not been found, but there have been indications of gene markers, whatever they are.

I liken the nature of the disease depression to the disease diabetes.
If your family has a history of late 30/ early 40s young adults sinking into coma a coma, is it acceptable to shrug and say, "Oh well, he's just like Uncle Waldo"?
Of course not.
When the coma happens, or the despair -- it's time to look for medical answers. They do exist.
In the case of the diabetic, it's easily diagnosed and usually easily treated.
Depression is not as easy, but there are treatments and therapies. Just as the diabetic needs to adjust dosages and behaviors, so does the depressed patient.


But if the diagnosis and treatments can't be adjusted quickly enough, in either case, the  sufferer will die as a function of his disease.
Not because he is just like Uncle Waldo, but because he suffered from the same (genetically influenced) disease.

I suppose, like most things, it is a combination of the two effects. Not nature vs nurture, but nature&nurture. Plus individuality.

What I would like to do is to urge anyone with suicide as a family trend, is to learn and be alert to the signs of this disease (or any related illness). Don't watch and worry -- that would be enough to make a sane person crazy -- but be aware.

It's not just the family history -- it's the family future.