Depression and #45
I never used to be very political; when I finally registered to vote in my home state, I registered as Independent because I had no real care either direction. I think I knew I was more Democrat, but I never was very bothered by elections. All politicians seemed “the same” and it felt like “choosing the lesser of two evils”. I remember feeling slight apprehension on election night for Obama, hoping he would be voted in, but I didn’t worry. I felt like his becoming President, and then staying President, was a foregone conclusion.
And then our most recent presidential election happened, and I couldn’t not be political anymore. I stood in line to vote and felt fear. I cried pretty much the whole time in line due to fear and anxiety. Our 45th President, whose name I will not use here, scares me. Sickens me. And was the trigger for a still-ongoing season of depression for me, the likes of which I haven’t seen in a long while.
I think that I held out some warped hope in November and December; hope for a re-count, hope for the electoral college to do something historic. Or perhaps it was denial. The hope/denial was gone when he was inaugurated.
Depression and Turning 40
Two things about this year are hard for me: I’m turning 40, and this year is the 20th anniversary of my father’s death.
This is the last year where I can say I’ve lived life without him for slightly less than the time I’ve known him. Living in a world where my father has been gone for longer than the time I’ve known him is weird, cruel, and just plain unfair. We were close, especially in what would be his last years. He was the “cool” parent, the one I got along well with, the one I was just like. His sudden death truly broke me and still has me fucked up to this day. I don’t think I would have ever wanted to show him this blog, but I’d like to think that, eventually, I would have told him about it. He would have happily helped me with my experiments; he would have gotten me equipment, or found new testing methods, or helped me research and understand. He was a chemist and fostered my love for “experiments” and learning. His influence led to the 2 majors I tried in college that have become useful for my blog: (photo) journalism, and computer tech. Even my strange way of typing is because of him – I don’t use two fingers on my left hand, and only recently realized they are the same two fingers he was missing. I was never taught how to type the “correct” way, but learned as I grew up with a computer and learned by watching him. It’s a strange connection that I cherish.
And yes, I’m turning 40 in a month and taking it hard. I don’t feel 40. I know that my father’s death was incredibly traumatic for me and the mental repercussions are many and deep. I feel like in many ways I didn’t “grow up” and mature; I don’t feel 40. But at the same time, 40 is making me aware of my health and the fact that time is marching on. I am middle-aged. Time is slipping away. I wonder if I’ve done “enough” in my 40 years, if I’m “behind”. Should I have accomplished more, by now? My last few birthdays have been “okay”, and some have sucked. I’ve not had a birthday party since my teen years, and I don’t plan to start up again now but I also feel like 40 should get more attention, more pomp and circumstance, more … something. I don’t know if I’ll get that, though. My anxiety on turning 40 features a lot of fuzzy, unformed fears that can’t really be voiced and don’t have defined parameters.
Depression and Blogging
So, yeah. I’m depressed. To add insult to injury, I tried going back on an old medication for a little while, to get a bit of a boost. Prozac had never been a wonder drug for me but it had been the only anti-depressant that didn’t give me terrible hazing side effects – until now. I couldn’t stick with it and outlast the hazing period, so I lost nearly a month to terrible side effects from going on the drug and then going off the drug. And all of this is to explain why you haven’t seen many posts from me. I’m trying.
My ability and desire to use sex toys has gone down the drain. My ability to write about sex toys has plummeted. I have reviews to write that, when I try really hard, come out as dry and flat as toast. My depression has seeped into my feelings on blogging, on this blog, and my ability to write anything decent or relevant. My depression is telling me that I shouldn’t go to Woodhull; that I won’t enjoy it and I’ll just bring others down. I also have a lot of guilt about the backlog of review items, and there’s nothing anybody can say to erase that. Sure, I could take time off to take care of myself, and I’m sure many will continue to suggest that, but I can’t. Not really. I feel like it’s either quit or stay, nothing in the middle. I’m trying to understand/remember that Depression Lies, but it’s also a word-stealing bastard thief.