**creepy and a story of depression**
While growing up, I didn’t have much in common with my brother except for the fact we lived in the same house, and had the same parents. Oh, and both of us had red hair.
He was a big mouth, I was shy. His life goal was to torture me. I have many stories of his brotherly love, but now I look back and laugh. I should have quit tattling on him, and dealt with matters myself.
Anything he liked, of course, I hated. One of his favorite television genres was horror. Prior to the early 1970’s, horror was depicted a bit differently than the blood and gore movies of today.
To me, it was entertainment because the shows were so corny.
One of the shows I have a vivid memory of, is an episode of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. Any who followed this show, will no doubt remember this particular episode.
It was titled The Caterpillar. Oh my gosh! What made me watch that episode, I will never understand. It wasn’t as corny as Godzilla, Rodan, Mothra, or the vampire movies of the day. It was downright creepy.
Short synopsis. Love triangle. Setting was in a jungle during rainy season. All were stuck inside due to rain—and they were bored. The Englishman who came to the jungle to work on a plantation, fell in love with the owner’s wife. He plotted to do away with plantation owner, in order to win over the wife. He hired someone to put an earwig in the ear of the owner, but the plot was botched, and he ended up with the bug in his ear.
The earwig tortured him while eating its way through his brain, coming out the other ear. The man was relieved he had survived. However, the doctor told him that the bug was a female and laid eggs all through its path through his brain. I think the episode ended with the man screaming.
To this day, earwigs are far more creepy to me than any spider. Even the huge spiders. All earwigs must be squished.
So, why am I torturing y’all with this story?
That is what depression, and trying to hide it feels like. It eats away all the good thought processes in our brains, and leaves behind eggs of self-doubt, self-hate, insecurity, and many other falsehoods.
There has always been a little part of me who fights like a warrior. The warrior has kept me from staying in bed and neglecting my kids. I neglected house work, but never my kids. On reflection, there were times I don’t feel as if I was fully engaged while playing with my kids. It took all my focus to pretend.
While I feel as if I’m climbing back up the hill to happiness, I also have too much fear of slipping. I get angry with myself that I’m wasting one of the precious days I have been blessed with, being nonproductive, fearful, and sad.
These days, I am alone most of the day. I have been trying to recognize my triggers for anxiety or depression. I was stuck on one particular anxiety producing area of my life. I have been experiencing afternoon/early evening feelings of anxiety-agitation-irritability. I had no clue why I felt this way.
This morning, while waking up from the fog of sleep, I recognized my trigger.
All day, I have the pleasure to be who I am. If it’s grumpy, sad, cranky, or some other unpleasant person, I am not exposing that part of me to my family. I’m not torturing them.
Around 4 pm, anxiety begins to take hold of me. As hard as I try to breathe deeply, attempt meditation–with a T, not a C–or keep myself busy, I still experience afternoon anxiety, and it has gone on far too long. I usually have to resort to medication–with a C, not a T.
I become silent when my husband comes home. I pretend. I’m either silent, or I’m mean. Silence is nicer.
Pretending eats at my brain.
So, why do I pretend? Because people who don’t suffer from depression can’t empathize. I don’t want to let my husband down. I don’t want him to have to come home from his stressful job and have to deal with someone who doesn’t really care about anything.
Now, the days I feel depressed, are actually becoming simple bad days filled with fear. The fear of slipping.
However, anxiety—that “skill” I have developed—is a part of me. A part I have to let go.
My approach to recovery isn’t the same for every person. We are all unique. We all have varying degrees, or types of depression, all coming from a different place. My depression has come from anxiety. My anxiety has come from my depression. Often, they go hand in hand. Either one leaves little eggs of self destruction.
I’m sharing this to give some hope to any who are struggling.
I’m making progress through therapy, medication, and hard work that I must take responsibility of.
If you are suffering, please seek help. You deserve it. You are worthy.