Mental Health: One Good Thing About Depression (a Listicle)

1.

Alright, here’s something weird: whenever I’m at the bottom of my depression, past thoughts of self-harm, because even that requires planning and execution, two things I’m unable to manage in that state, I experience…. relief.

Here’s me trying to hold it together
Photo by binh dang nam

Perpetually looking for the silver-lining in the way my mental health has panned out in life, this is a gift. Sometimes I’m like a crashed computer, and turn off mid-function. Since I don’t then care about living or dying, all of my anxieties evaporate into irrelevance. As an involuntary occupant of earth, nothing matters, right? Who cares about social posturing, Roth IRAs, Bottega Veneta loafers, learning how to ski, and whether Bora Bora or the Maldives is better dahhhling? As a matter of fact, who cares about car wrecks, vomit, untimely deaths, getting shot in public spaces, cancer silently multiplying inside of my body, and lethal seizures? Not me, because in that moment, things could not be worse, and I have nothing left to give. (Also, how do snobs not get tired of snobbing?)

There’s nothing to fear when things can’t be worse.

It’s almost a gift, when things cannot be worse. You’re forced to kind of relax into circumstance and have spaghetti limbs. You don’t have it in you to fight, so you let go and stop caring. Perhaps surprisingly, it’s this surrender that ends up being so emancipating. When you stop caring, you just are. When you just are, nothing matters. When nothing matters, you’re free. Perhaps this is the ethos behind suicide, although I think it’d be naive to assume all suicides are products of the same dwindling thought patterns. In the event it’s not readily apparent, I am not a doctor.

It’s not just my mind, though. As a result of all of my deep-seated anxieties going to jump in a lake one by one, my physical body begins to relax. My shoulders descend, my jaw stops clenching, I literally become a sad sack. A relaxed sad sack in a black outfit.

While I never wish that level of apathy for me or anyone else, there is something nice about that giving up of body and mind. I wish I could keep that bodily relaxation as I begin to rise back into the range of mental normalcy, whatever that means, but it’s like a small comfort I have to leave behind in a shitty place for next time I have to be there.

It’s like folks with Bipolar Disorder who enjoy the ride of mania even though they know it’s going to crash at some point. You’re involuntarily on the ride, anyway, you might as well enjoy what you can.

It’s also like the valium for dental fillings and root canals. Just kidding. There is never and will never be even a shadow of positivity or comfort about the dentist.

What’d we learn today, class? That’s right:

This concludes the “Good Things About Depression” listicle.

Sincerely yours in always pursuing the good about the bad,
Bailey


Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.


More on Bummed Out Bailey:
Mental Health: The Social Toll of Invisible Illness
Mental Health: The Danger of Comparative Suffering
Mental Health: Disjointed, Distracted, Discombobulated


The best way you can support me is to share my blog with friends! Another way to support is on my Patreon where you’ll find exclusive content. Your word of mouth and contribution mean more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Bailey by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website and enter your info into the form. I can also be found on InstagramFacebook, and Twitter!

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.


Here’s a nice golden good boi to look at.

Photo by Chris Henry

Mental Health: The Danger of Comparative Suffering

one time someone at my college did this on the stairs as an art installation
photo by DANNY G

First off, I’ve made it to Texas and have been okay so far. I’ve been diligent about working out, something that’s turned out to be key at keeping my depression at bay, and doing my best to keep “normal” sleeping hours. If I do anything each day, these two things are what I prioritize. I’m proud of myself, as I’ve had to be very intentional about each of my actions in order to care for myself, mental health, and ultimately my relationship with others. Don’t need a 2019 repeat.

This leads to something I’ve been thinking a lot about this summer (which is, weirdly, almost over): comparative suffering. I’m so tired of talking about the pandemic but, like it or not, it continues to inform every aspect our lives. The race rioting turning up to 10 in June has not helped the chaos and general scope of suffering. The media is colossally divisive, unifying language eludes our goober president, and we’ve largely left teachers and parents, the real pandemic MVPs, out to dry.

Progressives, the historical champion of the underdog and the political group in which I closest identify, want to keep everything locked down to maximize health safety. Conservatives want to expedite the re-opening process, possibly at the expense of innumerable lives, at the benefit of hard won business vitality and scholastic normalcy. Meanwhile, we’ve got poor parents stuck in between the two sides of a conundrum while everyone argues. It’s an argument worth having, of course, but how is a single parent with an active service industry job, two children, one old iPad, a shoddy internet connection, and no childcare managing paying bills and keeping their children on track with school? How about teachers, responsible for several classes, with school-age children of their own? We’ve kind of let the buck stop at our generally underserved population, parents, and it seems the new educational ideal only suits those who can afford having a stay-at-home parent. Further compounding the severity is the fact that educational disparity is the root of so many issues our country faces. I’m stressed. Are you stressed? I’m stressed.

Because I am a white lady who does not yet have children, I’ve been repeatedly heavy in praise and awe toward parents and BIPOC and, my god, people who identify as both of those things. I was invited to join a DIY anti-racist think tank made up of a small, primarily white cohort and surrounding Ibram X. Kendi’s renegade book How to be an Antiracist. I was a little late to the party and not completely caught up on reading, but in my first meeting I found like-minded, proactive white friends and one Indian friend committed to working together to undo our lifetimes of buried racist programming. While I was hopeful after meeting with these people and moved by Kendi’s words and calls to action, I fell off my standard cliff of depression I can typically be found teetering on and into a deeper, darker, and therefore more dangerous hole. My sadness crushed me into my recurring lived nightmare of self-hatred and ideas of self-harm. General inaction, with the notable inclusion of steps to undo a life of veiled racism, was a byproduct.

Next up is a white person classic: guilt. Oh, white guilt. Nobody wants to hear about it, and there I was stewing in it, hating myself for not being better. I called my [white] friend, the one who’d so generously invited me into the sacred, safe space, antiracist group to admit my feelings. I didn’t have it in me and needed to drop out. As a person living with mental illness and doing my best to survive (AKA stave off self harm, let alone COVID), I didn’t have any more emotional bandwidth. I felt I was failing my black brothers, sisters, and non-binary siblings, and I was crushed by my own ineptitude. I was bracing myself for my friend, married to an African American person, to take me by the proverbial shoulders and shake me, demanding I get it together, reinforcing what I knew to be true: BIPOC in America don’t have the luxury to woot around with psychiatry, Prozac, Lamictal, and Wellbutrin. In addition to the very equal-opportunity-affliction of mental illness, BIPOC are also living through a pandemic, perhaps also unable to secure a job like me, etc… all in addition to living through the every day trauma of moving through America as BIPOC. In regards to my feelings, in the canonical words of Sweet Brown, “ain’t nobody got time for that.”

Instead, I was surprised to be met with something I so fiercely value, something I do my best to always grant to others, and something that for some reason I fail to give myself. Grace. My friend reminded me to be gentle in my self-criticism and that while weighing our problems against each others’ is important for orientation and perspective, absolutely, me having Major Depressive and Anxiety Disorders was both less and more severe than current experiences of any other person on the street. She spoke on the dangers of comparative suffering, that taking on more than I could handle, something that leads me to an unhealthy, at-risk state, wasn’t actually going to help anyone. It reminded me of my psychiatrist’s standby of needing to put my own oxygen mask on first before being able to help others. The alternative is that, if I don’t, we could all be toast, which of course is also unhelpful and, well, ain’t nobody got time for.

The concept of comparative suffering is not meant to be explain away basic laziness or ignorance. Beware. It’s not a shield to hide behind so you may rest on your laurels in peace or an alleviation of responsibility. Instead it is meant to give grace to the overwhelmed who are doing their very best to be better.

Warmest,
Bailey


Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.


More on Bummed Out Bailey:
Mental Health: The Social Toll of Invisible Illness
Mental Health: Drowning
Mental Health: Disjointed, Distracted, Discombobulated


The best way you can support me is to share my blog with friends! Another way to support is on my Patreon where you’ll find exclusive content. Your word of mouth and contribution mean more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Bailey by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website and enter your info into the form. I can also be found on InstagramFacebook, and Twitter!

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.


I’ve been enjoying my new addition of the nice-dog-photo postscript. This past week we lost our precious family golden retriever, Achilles, so I find it only appropriate to share a photo of our wonderful boy. His mild temperament, humorous antics, and precious face brought immeasurable peace and joy to all.

May you all have an Achilles in your life.

Mental Health: Disjointed, Distracted, Discombobulated

I didn’t mean to disappear into the ether, I’ve just been wiggy about my precious, dying family golden retriever and trying to plan a trip back to Texas with an urgency fueled by ailing grandparents. The last time I went home to Texas I had a mental breakdown that emanated for months after like an emotional aftershock with an expensive psychiatry bill. It sucked, and I haven’t been on a plane since. I was supposed to go home in February for a dear friend’s wedding, but panicked and fell into a deep depression the day before I was meant to leave. Actively trying to stave off any kind of fresh meltdown, my head’s been elsewhere.

These are the facts.

  • Last time I was in Texas I had a full on meltdown and either needed to check into a facility or take an emergency flight back up to NYC where my psych is. I chose the latter.
  • Rick isn’t coming with me for work reasons, and a lot of times when I’m in my parents’ house thinking about past family trauma I become unmoored, which contributes to a sense of despair and helplessness. Rick’s presence helps me remember things aren’t the way they used to be- I live in New York, I’m married, I have agency, I’m no longer 19.
  • My birthday falls during this trip, and I will not get to spend it with my spouse. I will be spending it with the rest of my family, though, which is a huge W. It’s just a consideration.
  • When I return to NYC I must quarantine in my apartment for 14 days alone, getting food delivered to my door. In order to justify such a long ‘tine, I will be in Texas for 12 days. This means I will not see Rick for 26 days, the longest we’ve ever been apart.
  • No golden retrievers to be comforted by, and a beloved one will have just kicked the bucket here in New York right before I leave.

You may be wondering why the hell I’m doing this to myself aside from not having seen my family in over a year now, except my parents who visited for a few days in January, and never having even met my newest nephew. My grandparents, in their 90s, are having some issues. They’re historically quite healthy and independent, eating well, having daily Scrabble showdowns, and sexy Saturday night dinner dates (goals). I feel I’ve gotten not one but two chances to get it together and get down to Texas to see everyone when, first, my grandfather went to the ER and then my grandmother just days after. Fortunately neither were COVID related and they’re both okay, but I felt it was a not-so-subtle hint from the ol’ universe to get the hell down to Tejas. Hence, the urgency.

Fortunately this time my family is on the look out for any mental decline and I’ve been working out nearly every day to keep sadness at bay. I am not making any plans in Texas to avoid becoming overwhelmed, and will do my best to go to bed when everyone else does. I’ve got priors on staying up long after I should, sometimes with a cocktail, sometimes not, watching TV and sinking into a pit that the lonely sounds of a settling house and cycling AC don’t help. It’s kinda askin’ for a shadowy nightmare and I need to go park it in bed with a book and stay put til light. Oh, and not sleep in Alex’s old room like a creep. And read his old letters and files like an even bigger creep. I already wear all black, I mean, dang! Why do I have to also engage in creepy behavior? #creep

Like many people during the last five months I’ve been waffling between despair and inspiration. I’m mourning the old way of life and all the places and ways we used to connect with loved ones, but am also trying to reframe circumstance as opportunity. COVID has been a prime example of life coming at you fast Ferris Bueller style, and all you can do is recalibrate with new information and move forward the best you can. Something I’ve been thinking a lot about is repurposing newfound time or just general life set-up. I’m searching for the opportunity in the uncertain because I’m not just distancing physically. I’m also distancing creatively, emotionally, etc. What can I take from this? What can I make of this? I’m hoping that, during my 14 day ‘tine back here in NY, I will be able to maintain purpose and kick sadness to the curb. But, anyone with mental illness knows that sometimes we fall victim to our brains no matter how we prepare. The best laid plans…

I’m gonna stay alert and do the best I can. That’s all I can do, and it’s all you can do. Remember that. Beware of words, actions, and feelings and just do your best. Sometimes it looks like you making your bed and brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s hyper-productivity. You need rest days to have performative days, after all.

Last, if you have a dog or beloved pet, hug and spoil them. So much time passes between pet deaths that you almost forget how horrific the pain is when you’re going through it. Almost. Isn’t that what mothers jokingly say about giving birth? Ha. Life and death, what a doozy.

Warmest,
Bailey

p.s. Check out my travel album.

look at me go
Photo by Gary Lopater on Unsplash
I wish this were me
Photo by Shifaaz shamoon on Unsplash
here’s another shot of me
Photo by Gary Lopater on Unsplash

Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.


More on Bummed Out Bailey:
Mental Health: What About People with Depression?
Mental Health: The Social Toll of Invisible Illness
Mental Health: The Best Cure for Anxiety


The best way you can support me is to share my blog with friends! Another way to support is on my Patreon where you’ll find exclusive content. Your word of mouth and contribution mean more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Bailey by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website and enter your info into the form. I can also be found on InstagramFacebook, and Twitter!

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Mental Health: Excerpt from my Manuscript “Oh, Brother”

Vanilla

I wasn’t the only one suffering in silence in childhood. Duncan was, too, and like me he also didn’t register that something was actually wrong. Being the classic oldest child, he was impossibly hard on himself and spent the first 19 years of his life swimming against the current, assuming that must be how everyone lives. Being so close in age, he and Alex were best friends and shared a room for several years. When it was time for Duncan to set out on his own, my parents turned the dining room into a bedroom by installing doors on both of its open walls. One set of folding doors opened to the foyer, and the other into the back of the kitchen, far from the other three bedrooms and the rest of his family. Like with their looks, if my brothers had been swapped and Alex had been the one housed in the dining room, he’d still be making vitriolic jokes about it to this day: him being the rejected, neglected child. Mom’s fault. In true Duncan form, though, he now thinks his gastrointestinal maroon was hilarious. We still refer to his room as “steerage,” as if it’d been akin to the lowest fare ticket on the Titanic. Tough luck.

When he was in junior high, though, he hadn’t yet developed the sense of humor that would become so critical to his mental survival. He could hear the distant thud of me bonking my head on my pillow down the hall with my door cracked open as I tried to forget everything. Closer still was the dishwasher swishing just outside his door. Duncan would sneak into the kitchen and sit on the linoleum in the dark, knees to his chest. He’d peer through the 1980s built-in lattice work that separated the kitchen and living room to watch whatever our parents had on TV, likely something Plugged In didn’t approve of. Early on Saturday mornings I’d wander into Duncan’s room and crawl up onto his bed to watch cartoons with him. We all thought Duncan’s early mornings were just a part of him taking himself seriously, but he just wasn’t sleeping. He doesn’t remember a life without insomnia.

Duncan was a dweeb, but he didn’t know he was a dweeb. He was really into Dockers, braided belts that matched his penny loafers, honors classes, and his custom engraved bowling ball. He approached each bumper-free lane with a stoicism and precision typically reserved for people disarming bombs with one second to spare. His temper flared at the first sign of trouble, though, an inner rage that burned so brightly that none of us were ever ready for it. He hated himself for getting a B, and slammed down his remote control over and over if he lost a Nintendo game. Like, flee-the-room-out-of-fear remote-slamming. His childhood frame was feeble, though, and his flying fists were as threatening as wet spaghetti noodles. Holes didn’t begin appearing in the walls of our house until he was in his early 20s.

Alex would’ve called Duncan out on his weird mannerisms and dork tendencies if it weren’t for two things. One, he worshipped Duncan. Two, he really, really worshipped Duncan. When Alex decided in his preteens that he was unable to keep pace with Duncan academically or athletically, his cruelty disguised as humor began to form. When I skipped a grade, he was squashed between two siblings who seemed to effortlessly do what he couldn’t.

[continue reading on Patreon]

Warmest,
Bailey


Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.


More on Bummed Out Bailey:
Mental Health: The Social Toll of Invisible Illness
Mental Health: The Gold of One’s Spirit
Mental Health: The Best Cure for Anxiety


The best way you can support me is to share my blog with friends! Another way to support is on my Patreon where you’ll find exclusive content. Your word of mouth and contribution mean more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Bailey by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website and enter your info into the form. I can also be found on InstagramFacebook, and Twitter!

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Mental Health: The Best Cure for Anxiety

Coldplay, but make it millennial pink
Photo by Tonik

Hello! How are you? I hope you’ll… tell me about it, stud(?). Just like Sandra Dee, if we change everything we are to impress a person posturing in a letterman jacket who’s likely going nowhere in life, you will 1) fly away in a car, and 2) resolve all self-doubt personally, professionally, romantically, mentally, and spiritually. That’s the extent of my message this week. Thank you, and good night.

Welp, this post has already gone off the rails.

Typically, my Wednesday posts go up at 9am sharp, so the time stamp on this here post should be a strong indicator of how my week’s goin’. I’ve committed to you and myself, though, to post on Wednesdays, and I wanna keep that commitment. Which leads me right into my point this week. I read somewhere, perhaps in So Sad Today by Melissa Broder, that the best cure for anxiety is thinking of others.

It’s an interesting concept, isn’t it, to take focus off yourself to pull yourself out of the mental meltdown taking place or threatening to take place inside of your head. It’s like when I get upset with someone, like a stranger who cuts you off in traffic or is snippy at the sinks in a public bathroom for no discernible reason (can you tell I had a v specific encounter at LaGuardia? LaGuardia is the place where souls go to die), I always try to remind myself that that person is or once was someone’s beloved baby. I also try to think about the fact that hurt people hurt people.*

ANYway, in that same vein of being on the receiving end of something negative and recalibrating my thoughts, it’s an interesting challenge to try to redirect my focus onto someone else: I wonder how my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Johnson is doing, ’cause she was so good to me when my anxiety was undiagnosed. Is my mom (a flight attendant) in the air right now? Is that UPS driver happy, and would they like one of the cold bottles of water Whole Foods keeps sending me that I didn’t ask for and I now suppose their secret plan all along has been to hydrate strangers? What might I get [person I like so much/maybe even person I don’t like so much] for their birthday? What would make them smile? So on and so forth.

While anxiety has very real physical manifestations, it either starts in your brain OR your brain perpetuates and escalates the situation into longer unrest. This is a trick worth trying, wondering about other people and possibly how you might help them or make them smile. Wouldn’t you want someone to help you or make you smile? One time I was sobbing by the East River, as New Yorkers are wont to do because, waiting for results from my neurologist, I’d convinced myself I had a brain tumor and that this was it, my nerves fried, my adrenaline dumped, and nothing left to give. My limbs had gone limp and I was melting into a park bench like a lumpy black-clothes-clad popsicle in the sun. A woman walking her dogs stopped to ask if I was okay, and I still think about her a bunch. How’s she doin’? Is she okay? I like your dogs! Thanks for checking on me! Sorry for lying to you about whether I was okay! Wish I could send you a Starbucks gift card!

Next time you’re wiggin’ and feel anxiety creeping in, try redirecting your thoughts outside of your body. It might be a crash and burn, or it could be lit, as the youths say. Won’t know til ya try it.

Warmest,
Bailey

*Sometimes I think I need a writing wrangler. Like, someone who’s watching the words and sentences build from my fingers on the keyboard in real time and then they’re like * skrrr! * (skidding tire sound when braking) “We’ve got a, uh, 9-oh-6 violation of severe digression, please resume to your point, ma’am.” Now that I think about it, that’s what an editor does.** But, sometimes digression is kinda funny. Or, at least it’s kinda fun…ny… for me.

**I’m a freelance editor and am actually v good at it. So, I guess I exorcise all of my pent up digressions here on ye olde blog.


Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.


More on Bummed Out Bailey:
Mental Health: The Social Toll of Invisible Illness
Mental Health: The Gold of One’s Spirit
Mental Health: Flip Over Some Emotional Rocks, See What’s Happenin’ Underneath! (Pandemic Activity Idea)


The best way you can support me is to share my blog with friends! Another way to support is on my Patreon where you’ll find exclusive content. Your word of mouth and contribution mean more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Bailey by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website and enter your info into the form. I can also be found on InstagramFacebook, and Twitter!

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.