SeeingRred
The Unburdening
I’m reaching my climax. I’m at the highest of my lowest-of-the-lows. How do I know this? Because I have been here once before.
Not more than 15 minutes ago, I was downstairs sitting alone in the dark, curled up in fetal position on my cream wing-back chair, my hands tightly interwoven, not in prayer, but pressing down hard on my head at the crown and into my temples, bearing down on the pressure mounting relentlessly inside.
The image of a gun comes to me.
It’s as if it is actually there in front of me, and I see my hand reaching out. I imagine how people must feel at this pivotal moment, looking down that cold, black barrel, resolved that they have done everything they can think of and endured all they can possibly withstand. Feeling their painful emptiness, I acknowledge that I have, for almost a lifetime, longed for this gentle release. Enraptured by the reverie, my mind takes over. “Yes. If I was gonna do it, this would be it. Get rid of all the tormenting thoughts in one blow, once and for all. But, maybe not a gun. Too messy. Besides, what if I blew my brains out, but didn’t die?? That wouldn’t be good. I could take a whole bunch of pills and drink something awful to wash it down, maybe some alcohol to numb the pain, or maybe chlorax to disintegrate and destroy me from the inside out. No. Just in case it made me vomit and then all the pills would come out and not work. Anything to stop this… Anything to keep my brain from hurting… Anything to stop my thoughts. Take a sharp knife and plunge it into the soft spot of my skull, ceasing all function. Could this work? A rock. Maybe smash my head in. Then the pain would stop. This could work. Or, instead of avoiding it, do opposite and inflict the most terrible pain on myself, and force myself to feel. Bear the worst terrors of this world, knowing that in the end it would kill me …. (slow, quiet breath of relief).” Stop.
I open my eyes and look up to see the triad of oversized sepia canvases looming above, and my children looking back at me. My eyes ache, my upper lips start to quiver, my nostrils burn. Try as I might to stiffen up and hold them back, I feel the tears start to well. All three sets of eyes, sparkling with wonder, beam back lovingly at their photo-capturer. They hold my gaze and I dare not look away.
I cry out in whispery grief, “I am so sorry. I am sorry for being useless. I am sorry for yelling and criticizing, and making you (feel) useless. Coming from useless, you are bound to be useless. You see useless. We show you useless over and over, and then you learn useless too.” They just stare back, eyes still sparkling with wonder and beaming back lovingly. “Whyyyy God??! If you are even out there, you are not here for me.”
I become aware of my hands, fatigued, still pressing. I rebuke prayer and I denounce God. “Fuck you, God. How can you do this? If not even for me, how can you let me do this to my children…. my beautiful, innocent babies… I am soooo sorry. No matter what I do, it doesn’t matter. No matter if I try and try and try, I end up back in the same place. I tried to do it for him and I tried to do it for them. I even tried to do it for me. Who do I do it for now? I don’t know if I can do this … knowing that I will end up here again. I can’t do this again. I can’t take this anymore. How do I stop this? Why does this keep happening? What am I supposed to doooo?!!!”
Somewhere in this lamenting, something strange transpires; prickly words, as tangible as skin, formulate:
no matter try and try back same place now again anymore keep happening
The notion of repetition snaps my attention, and I visualize patterns. I remember my blog. I think of how important it was for me to set it up as a “working living blog,” structured as a timeline that can collapse on itself, using my journal entries/posts to connect past and present, so that I can understand and expose my thoughts and onerous patterns of behaviour.
I notice some ease of pressure with the release of tears and words. Lamentation disrupted by gradual self-awareness, “Can this be my self-therapy at work again?” I ask aloud, getting excited. Thoughts start coming. “I eat to release; always a comfort; my weapon of choice… I rage to release; increasingly common (again); a desperate demand for attention and care, yet unanswered… I write to release; the one constant; devout listener; my eternal salvation. I NEED to write this down.”
Then I start second-guessing myself. “It’s too much to remember everything. Will I be able to recall everything as it happened and how I just experienced it? Can I make it clear enough (to understand)?” In the cream chair, I sit still for a bit, feeling the tingling of excitement mixed with doubt, unsure of myself, but letting the words emerge at their own will. With an onslaught of words and emotions scaling the walls and seeping out, holding onto them for dear life, I start to run.
The following is my initial thought process written down. It is how the above journal entry purged itself and fell onto the page:
“I am just going to write. Stream of consciousness….not let words and grammar and punctuation, and the way good writing “should” sound, get in the way of clarity. Just let it all out before I forget what I am thinking and forget what I am feeling. Maybe if I don’t think too much, my truth will come to me and I can let it out. I’m trying not to reread too much or think too much, but I want to remember what I was experiencing just a little while ago (thoughts and feelings), because I think I had somewhat of an epiphany. All of a sudden there was a kind of a release (initiated by the tears??), and my mind started making connections and making sense of my thoughts and there was a moment when I felt omniscient. My mind tossed me from a moment dark with hopelessness and despair, to one of quasi-enlightenment.”
I held on tight to those few key words as I ran to the page to type. They are boldly underlined. And this is what came out. The result … my Release.
End: 2:16 am
The Soul-Searching
The last time I felt this way, I was barely twenty. I was eastbound, heading home in my old, but trusty rusty-brown Datsun 210. Approaching the corner of Dixie Road and Queen St., I eased into the newly-widened left lane, patiently waiting my turn. I looked up to see a set of stylish condos, looming in the forefront of the bright, sunny sky, full of happy people peering down from their fish-bowled views. To the left was a parking lot; a scene of countless foreboding parallel park/3-point-turn trials, a shortcut to thrill-seeking teenaged adventures, and a silent witness to many covert conversations. I saw its proudly perched church, and thought of how, in all the times I had circled round, I had never felt compelled (or welcomed) enough to walk through the front door. On the opposite corner, my eyes scaled the outline of the Bramalea City Centre, a fantastic public playground, exchanging energy and pulsing with activity. I remember looking in all directions, sensing motion and life beating all around me. Sitting in my little car, in awkward juxtaposition with that kinetic and fast-paced intersection, I felt detached and very alone. Where was my place in this so-called life? What was the point of any of this? Why was I even bothering to go home?
It was my turn at the lights. I jutted out halfway. I saw a huge Mack truck in the distance heaving forward trying to make the light. With my foot hovering above the accelerator, I wrapped my fingers tight around the steering wheel, bracing myself against the back of my seat. I whispered a prayer for the driver’s safety, asked his forgiveness and edged out in wait. Just then, an image of my beloved young nieces and nephews popped in my head. With tears streaming down, I spoke aloud, “My precious babies, I hope you remember how much I love you and know that, without a doubt, you are everything pure and beautiful and good. Please know that this is not about you. I wanted to be strong enough and be my best … for you. But, I am pathetic and weak. I can’t take this (pain) anymore. I just want it to be over. There is a wonderful life waiting for you, full of love and happiness. I love you soooo much. Please forgive me and pleease pleeease don’t ever believe that giving up is an option for you. You deserve better than this.” Readied, I closed my eyes and held my breath…. I turned the wheel to the right just in time to hear the Mack truck’s horn blaring in harsh protest as it sailed on by. Regretful and torn, I drove home.
The Denouement
Holiday time, especially Christmas and New Years Day, can be extremely difficult to bear. It always has been for me. We are bombarded from every direction by festivity and fun. Some buy into it and bathe ourselves in intoxicating, sickly-sweet high expectation. Others, in revolt, turn inward holding fast to faith and notions of righteousness and goodness. In different ways and for different reasons, we are forced to take stock of our lives, trying to find purpose, quantifying our accomplishments and accumulations. And, regardless of age/gender/status (financial, relationship etc.), we often fall painfully short of the accepted ideas of fulfillment and success that are dangled tantalizingly in front of us.
This post is based on a journal entry written on April 8, 2017, days before my 45th birthday. Despite all of my efforts and good intention, I found myself once again reeling down into a bottomless pit. Somehow, sitting in submission on that cream couch, I managed to break the pattern and bring the spiralling flow of negative thoughts to a halt. For a second time in my life, something inside stopped me from going down that tempting, dark path of finality. Was it the overpowering feeling of responsibility? … Of needing to be a good human being and a positive role model for my young beloved ones? … Of wanting more for others than I could ever ask for myself? Almost nine months later and I am still not sure.
To believe that Life and the universe are working against me and that, no matter how much I try, I can never rise above, has been torturous and debilitating. Attempt after unsuccessful attempt to battle these indomitable forces had convinced me that the only way to supersede them was to end my life. As much as I wanted to end the pain, though, I knew somewhere deep down that I did not want to kill myself. I really just wanted things to get better. But, I didn’t know how to do it… how to bring about a real, permanent change. In spite of everything, I have never stopped trying.
I have been excessive in the amount of time I have spent pulling apart my life and dissecting the many factors that anchor me, all the while bobbing and gasping in murky water. But, what is my depression all about? For me, depression is a constant foreboding of bad things yet to come; anxiety getting in the way of enjoying the here and now; impending doom; of gloom usurping happiness; dark forces pulling me in, unwilling to ever let me go. It is unyielding despair, utter HOPELESSNESS.
Yet, I have HOPE. I must. My very existence, the fact that I am still here after so long, proves that I have Hope. Even in my lowest, darkest, loneliest of times, a tiny part of me believed things could get better. This must be true because, for all the battles that I have had, I AM STILL HERE. I don’t know why it has taken so long. This is still an unanswered question. More and more, I realize I have a lot to live for, despite all the moments when I am convinced I do not. The mind plays tricks. It feels like the wind has changed direction and, rather than dragging me down, it is lifting me up to a brighter existence. I am cautious, though. And still hopeful.
In my experience of it, Depression, a symptom of implanted hopelessness, is passed down. Stuck in a rut of a mindscape, we inherit it and then teach what we know – negativity, criticism, cynicism, isolation, anxiety, fear. Even as a child, if ever surrounded by beauty and joy, the dark lens I was given did not allow me to see it. Darkness crept into my heart and shadowed my self. It became me and took over my life. I do not accept this for myself any longer. Moreover, I do not want this for my children. So, it is a recognition of patterns, and the breaking of them, that will be our salvation. It is happening right now.
Identifying the stages in my mind shift has been tricky. Learning that there were others experiencing depression like me was the first awakening. So, I want you to know that you are not alone. I understand. I have been there, waaay down there. Just like you. Ready and wanting to give up. The next thing that was pivotal was realizing that there were people with real success stories that had managed to overcome it. They didn’t give up. So don’t. Give yourself a chance. Maybe you haven’t been told in a while (or maybe you forgot), but you deserve happiness. Just like everybody else. You are worth it. Give Life a chance to start working for you, rather than against you. Believe. DO NOT GIVE UP. Maybe you can hold on to the fact that somebody in your life loves you and needs you. Perhaps you have yet to encounter the thing that will change your life or meet the person who is waiting for you. Even in your misery, take little steps and prepare yourself. You might end up being the very thing that will shift your negative thinking, and bring about the change you seek.
Zanecia Ramjohn
So Rish, this is not the original comments I sent; I will have to read again. It was very disturbing and dark, but I appreciate the effort and strength it took to have written these experiences. Lots of emotions, pain, sadness, and so much shame and guilt that you had to relive this ugliness. I do feel that your experience allowed you to face some fears and get more in touch with You. Is this not what we call be enlightened?. Does this mean you have conquered and will not go there again. Please remember you are loved by a whole lot of people and you are helping others. Some of us take the easy way out, by forgetting or not dealing with things. Love You
SeeingRred
Zan, I know it is difficult, so thank you sooo much for posting publicly and putting yourself out there. Not only does it give me a chance to respond, but it offers different perspectives and opens up conversations on a very complex and sensitive issue. I have received many responses, mostly private, and it is jarring to realize that my experiences have been disturbing or made such an impact… kind of scary really. I want to be responsible and handle it all kindly and respectfully.
My writing is (and has always been) a form of self-therapy and a way of releasing pent-up emotions… perhaps it is, singlehandedly, the one thing that has allowed me to last this long. When the feelings are left untended or unacknowledged, they end up stuck and stewing in my brain. They swell up and become larger than life, overwhelming and unmanageable. This, especially over time, is very painful. While I am writing, the emotions (sadness/shame/guilt/ugliness etc) are vivid and real and hurtful, but once they are out of me and onto the page, they seem to lose their power over me. Writing about my emotions is a good thing. It allows me to FEEL what I am feeling, acknowledge that I am experiencing something uncomfortable or frightening, and analyze the ideas my mind builds up to substantiate them (some ideas sometimes being false or unreasonable).
I have made A LOT of changes in my life, even recently, which have helped to establish a different, more positive mindset that I did not know was possible for me. I do not foresee that I will get to this low point again. But, just in case, I am trying to put into place a variety of things that will keep me afloat, such as regular exercise/yoga-meditation (for health and physical/emotional well-being), my writing (for creative release), my blog (for purpose/meaning in my life), sincere friendships and relationships (for real connection and fun). I am realizing more and more that I have a whole lot of people who care about me…. And I am so very thankful (to each and every one of you). I wish everyone could have such support and love shown to them.
My wish is that we open up our minds and our hearts, to see and care about the people in our daily lives that we do not normally take notice of or put aside time for…. Maybe take a moment to acknowledge, smile, say a few kind words to. This person may be sitting at a desk beside you, in line at the grocery store, or even in the mirror. Please take the time. It really matters.
Martin Hudon
I’ve read your posts here and there over the last while Reesheen. In silence, and mainly, out of curiousity and a desire to understand where one can be taken by life and extreme challenge. I can say firmly I appreciate what you’re doing, and the messages and sincerity speaks loudly to me. Thank you so much for sharing; I think you’re incredibly brave and insightful. The only thing is, I feel hesitant about sharing because, well, the things you’re writing about are very personal. I suppose if it’s here, you want it to be shared, right? I know people who need to read this. Warmest regards, Martin.
SeeingRred
Thank you so much, Martin, for writing your thoughts and for worrying about me. You are a good and kind. I really do understand your reluctance. Every time I have posted something on my blog, my initial response is relief/strength/happiness. I always feel empowered and liberated releasing these thoughts from my head, especially in a way that allows my creative expression. But, soon after, I start to feel worried that I have exposed way too much of myself. I wonder how it will affect people (those I don’t and do know) when they read it. A big concern always is what people are thinking of me, my family, my kids and that there may be unexpected ramifications in the future that I cannot foresee –yuck! I have to come to terms with the fact that some may find it dark and disturbing and too much. I understand… I do. The content in such posts as Hope(less), The Terms (of Endearment), and When Mommy Monster Comes Out to Play sets a heavy and somber tone but, when I read closely, I feel that there is undeniable strength and hope underlying every one.
Sharing my deepest thoughts, insecurities and failures make me feel vulnerable. This is really, really scary. But, what is even more scary is being afraid… of others knowing me for who I really am, people’s judgements, my own doubts, Life. And, I don’t want to be afraid anymore, Martin.
I do want my blog to be shared (thanks for even asking), because as much as it makes me and a few people uncomfortable with the issues/topics, I am beginning to see more and more that there are tons of people who are suffering. This is not a surprise or anything new. But, what is shocking is that most that I have communicated with feel alone/shamed/silenced, and believe that no one really understands. The fact is, though, there are lots of people out there going through the same or similar experiences. Or perhaps not at all the same, but who care. It was consoling for me to learn this. It gave me hope. It also helped me to form deep connections that otherwise I might not have had the chance to make had I stayed silent.
The responses I have received have been incredibly eye-opening. I have learned from each and every person who have shared their stories, feedback and their hearts. Even your concern and your hesitancy has taught me something, Martin. So, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for speaking your mind.
mammas
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SeeingRred
Thank you very much, Mammas! I had a pretty clear vision of what I wanted my site to look like. I tried to create it myself (several times–lol), but limited by the templates that were available at the time and my less than savvy tech abilities, I finally gave in and got some help. Take a look at DesignIgnite.com. I highly recommend Vannon Chiang. He is professional, efficient and very patient, and gives comprehensive feedback. I am very grateful for his help in bringing my blog to life! Good luck with your site… and let me know how it turns out! 🙂