Tag: depression

Autobiography · Personal Development · Writing

Collective

Ruby Pipes4 Comments
big-loft-room-great-photo-640px
© Collective Agency, 2015.

I noticed it when I started glaring at my walls. Sighing heavy when I moved into my office to start writing for the day. When I couldn’t make myself get up and go running in the morning because what does it matter anyway?

The bounce slipped out of my walk and heavy feet trailed around the apartment. Thick socks dragging dirt from wood floors to carpet and back again. I sat on the couch and played Mario Kart instead of writing. Started watching Jane the Virgin on Netflix. Crocheted my first scarf. Anything to keep my mind, my hands, my eyes busy so I wouldn’t have to write.

Losing momentum. Maybe that’s the best way to describe it. Momentum lost. I love our new apartment and the fact we both have separate offices to work out of. But having a commute that consisted of walking from one room to the next made me feel like I was always and never at work. And not being around other humans during the day really started to take its toll on my emotional well-being.

So last week I joined a coworking space in Portland. I gave myself a thirty minute train ride every morning. A desk surrounded by other desks. People to go to lunch with. A big, warm room filled with folks like me.

And as soon as I got there, I started writing again. Words spilled from my fingertips onto the screen. I careened through blank space, filling it with letters that mattered to me. I took deep breaths and could feel the vibrancy returning to my being.

It’s often the simple things, isn’t it? We have so many monumental battles we’re fighting on any given day that it’s easy for us to forget the small ones. Forget the leaving the house ones. The talking to a friend ones. The making a phone call or reading a book or taking a walk ones. The little battles that make the big ones seem like maybe they’ll be okay.

Guest Posts · Mental Health

Guest Post: Wake Up Call

Ruby Pipes9 Comments
"DSC_0087" © Harvy, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“DSC_0087” © Harvy, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

You heard it before you knew what was happening, before you were even fully conscious, opening your eyes to the dark and to the sound. A ghostly sob behind hypnopompic curtains, fuzzing into your dream like an alarm clock. And maybe it was an alarm, in a way. Not the ring-ring-ring kind, but an alarm of another variety. An alert, a Mayday signal from your subconscious, saying wake up and feel this.

You woke after the crying had already started, the pillow wet beneath your cheek. You tried to keep the noise down, so as not to wake him. Because you wanted to be polite in your grief, because you didn’t want him to ask. Because you didn’t know the answer.

But you also needed to get it out. Out of your body as if it were something you could retch up from your stomach and out your throat. It would come out heavy and hard because that’s how long it’s been sitting there. Shoved down, stuffed down, pressed harder and harder into a ball. Your own personal diamond.

What happened to you? What is going on in those delta waves? When did this start? You never used to do this, did you?

No. I didn’t.

–––––

Shannon Noel Brady is a multi-genre author of novels and short stories. Her blog muses on the craft of writing with pieces of fiction interspersed.

Would you like to have your work featured on this blog? Send an email to rubyabrowne[at]gmail.com.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Personal Development

Nurture

Ruby Pipes20 Comments
"pink wooly love" © Dorky Mum, 2010. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“pink wooly love” © Dorky Mum, 2010. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

In November of 2013 I was happy. I like to hold onto that month in my memory as proof that it’s possible. Evidence I can shake this ache from my bones and stand up strong. I carry that idea around with me like a seed, try to supply it with what it needs to grow. But it’s mostly guesses as to how this all works. How to properly nurture it.

I know I was getting up at the same time every day and exercising at least forty minutes. Mason and I were doing a Whole30, so we were eating well and I was cooking most of our meals. I was also participating in NaNoWriMo. But that’s all I can remember about that month. Those things and the fact that I was happy.

Could happiness be so simple? Something that wraps itself into our daily activities like brushing our teeth or checking the mail. Perhaps it slinks in and out of our lives attached to simple habits we didn’t think made much of a difference at the time. Maybe it’s not all just the whim of brain chemicals and hormones. Maybe it’s the day-to-day things.

It both needs to be simple and couldn’t possibly. Could I get that feeling back just by working out, cooking, and writing a book? If I think it’s that easy, why I can’t I get myself to do those things? The strong hand of depression closes around me so tight I can’t seem to make the movements I need to free myself.

All of it sounds so easy in theory. Get up in the morning, go run, go to work, write, cook dinner. But each one feels so monumental when you’re wrapped up in it. When you’re in the midst of depression, nothing seems like it would make a difference. The things you know help don’t matter, because you can’t make yourself believe any of the things you know. But maybe I could start.

Maybe I could get myself to remember it’s the little things that make a difference. Maybe I could get myself to remember it’s simple steps in the right direction that get you to where you’re going. I don’t need an entire garden, just a little bit of soil.