Above, The Vaulted Sky: Lyme Disease and Depression
“I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.”
I'm depressed again. I really, really wish I wasn't, but I am.
This week marks the one year anniversary of my brother and mine’s Route 66 Road Trip (best trip ever) AND my move to Los Angeles AND the start of October (yay fall!) AND the start of Drawlloween 2018. It’s by far one of my top 3 favorite times of the year, and yet I’m sad and lonely and depressed again. Curse you, cosmic timing!
Oh how I long for that week on Route 66 again. Not only because of the excitement of the move, my soul being invigorated with the energy of a life on the road, and the staggering beauty of the Southwest United States. But also because - after a few months of being on treatment - my relentless depression had seemingly vanished for good.
It is now apparent that I was wrong.
Obviously, and as I’ve admitted before on Byting Back, it’s my own fault that a slew of my symptoms are returning as of late, what with me stopping treatment before I was in complete remission (I’m back on track, however, and hating it. Oh those herxheimer reactions, how bitchy they can be). But it’s a tricky thing to write about - depression. In the midst and depths of it my mind is hijacked completely so I don’t trust myself to write about it honestly, and when I’m out of it I’m not even remotely in the mood to discuss it, let alone write about it (which even then would be hard to do honestly). It is only on the cusp of a depressive episode, going in or coming out, that I am able to enunciate how I truly feel, and how it feels to have a CLD fueled depressive mind. Without giving into sheer hopelessness or exaggeration, mind you. As a matter of fact I’ve been meaning to write about this aspect of Chronic Lyme for quite some time. Since the blog began, really.
But again: it’s hard. Haven’t been able to time it right.
I can't help but wonder if I'll be trapped by this for the rest of my life. Or rather, if the Lyme has done irreparable damage. That’s the worst part, ladies and gents. I am absolutely certain that Lyme hit my brain the hardest, and now all that remains is to get it out as vigorously and quickly as I can and hope that what remains can heal. If not, then this is the ball game. For me, what I’ll have left will be it. I know that as of right now my brain is chemically unable to maintain/cope/heal itself to the point where my low moments - no. not moments: seasons. - don't last as long, or affect me as deeply as they do. But, alas, they are. And they do.
The poem at the start of this post was first brought to my attention by the beautifully macabre show Penny Dreadful. Penny Dreadful, set in Victorian era London, touches on a number of topics: death, dying, betrayal, lust, envy, etc. But above all, it is a three-season-long study of loneliness. All of the characters, despite being in the same monster-fighting troupe, are in and of themselves wildly lonely people because of singularly unique, life-defining traits that keep them apart emotionally/spiritually. They are lonely together. And while most of them find some semblance of strength in the union of their company, their heroine - the dark and devastating Vanessa Ives (as brilliantly portrayed by Eva Green) - never finds that solace. If/when she gets a taste of contentment, it is fleeting. Momentary. Denied almost as quickly as its peaceful possibilities are revealed. You can see in her actions that she wants to let it all go - to finally be able to love and hurt and repair and connect - but cannot. She is doomed to be a singularity in the darkness.
It is through her, thanks in part to one of the most poetic depictions of Frankenstein's monster ever depicted on screen, that the poem "I Am" by John Clare was passed along to me. Clare's words pierce like a dagger dipped in verituserum. He gets it. He gets me. This poem expresses exactly how I feel in my bleak seasons: abandoned, morose, silenced, forgotten, alien. Singular. And of course, the yearning. My God, the yearning:
“I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept...”
As Elaine Stritch once said: “I’m angry. I’ll get over it, but I really am angry. I’m sore as hell that I had to go through what I had to go though to get through what I had to get through.” Preach, sister Elaine. She get’s it too. I’m also sore as hell that I continue to have to deal with depression. The stimuli of life that stress and suppress us are, to the everyday man with enough resilience and determination, vault-able. With support and strength, they can be overcome or evaded for a time. But to a fellow like me, in a situation where my body and brain are already exhausted physically from fighting an infectious disease twenty four hours a day, it’s not so easy. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate the kind words and encouraging gestures friends and family have given me over the years. But it’s not as simple as ‘pushing through’. It’s not as simple as taking a pill. It’s not as simple as going to see a therapist. It’s not as simple as “bucking up”, “steadying the buffs”, or “keep calm, drink tea, and carry on”. It’s so much more, so much harder, than that.
And frankly, I’m tired. I’m just tired. I’m tired physically. I’m tired mentally. I’m tired of BEING tired. I’m tired of fighting. I don't want to give up, but gosh darn it I am tired of this fight. I get that you have to do one or the other - fight, or fall - and have no plans to quit the battle. There is far too much life left to be lived, and I plan on living it fully. But I simply no longer have the tools in my wheel house, or ammo in my canon, to maintain a defense in this war. Depression will not win, but it’s not losing either. It’s as if I’m butter scraped over too much bread. A tree standing in a field, caught in the crossfire of a Civil War re-enactment with live ammunition. I feel... old. Weary. Brittle in my bones and my brain. As if I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes and am grasping to find a meaning to live my hundred and first. Again, because I know there are some of you reading this who will be alarmed by my saying that, I will reiterate that I have no intention of checking out. I really don’t. But it certainly does feel like I’m trapped in the hotel. Something’s not working and I don’t know what.
“Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.”
What also makes me silently ‘sore as hell’ is the fact that it feels like I can’t relate to anyone - ANYONE - on this level. I have friends, even best friends, and family who I turn to for support if my mind is willing to allow me to reach out for help. And they do - they lift my spirits for a moment, help me forget (in the good way) and remind me of all I have to be grateful for. And I want to say that I truly cherish the time I spend with friends and family. Perhaps that’s why I’m such a nostalgic person, because I’m certain of both the happiness I’ve had and the depression I’m bound to have. And, naturally, I prefer the former. But I’ve never - not even once - come across another human being, whether it be in passing or after knowing them for years, who truly understands what I’m going through or how my mind operates when it’s depressed. John Clare, it seems, does. But shit, he’s dead isn’t he? If ever someone did come around I’d probably fall in love with them on the spot.
I think the genuinely tragic part of my ‘debilitating depressive predicament’, to put it mildly, is that it was/is entirely avoidable. My brain was not hard wired to be chronically depressed, or anxious, or forgetful, or confused, or any of it. Lyme took care of that. Lyme bacteria got into my brain and ate away at my serotonin receptors, hippocampus, pituitary gland, amygdala, and spinal cord. The result is a very confused and overworked part of my body that I’m afraid is the only reason I’m here. It’s not surprising then that I am oftentimes very confused and feel very overworked, even if I’ve only just woken up or spent 15 minutes at work in the morning. Not having a brain that works properly is reason enough to be depressed, let alone to feel the affects of that ‘busted brain’. Lyme, in short, has exacerbated any form of depression or anxiety or forgetfulness or mental incapacity I now deal with on a daily basis. I’ve said for years that it feels like depression is my ‘constant’ and happiness is the thing that comes and goes. White stripes on black, not black stripes on white.
“And yet, I am — and live...”
I’m going to end this post with to things. The second is an ABBA song that has helped me get out of my depression if but for a few minutes, so I want to CHER it with you (that’s a pun because the new Cher cover of the song is amazing). But the first is this notice:
I have a right to my depression. I have a right to feel this pain. To be hurt. To feel low. To be miserable if I cannot help it. I don’t WANT any of it, believe me. But it has become obvious to me over the past few years that depression is an inescapable part of my existence (if but for now, fingers crossed). So while I’m dealing with it, I HAVE THE RIGHT TO DEAL WITH IT. I have the right to be a depressed, moody little shit if that means I’m getting through what I have to get through. I am so sick of, and frankly done with, the people in my life who don’t want to have a single thing to do with me when I’m depressed, sad, or feeling lonely. Who make tracks and are scarce when the going gets really f*ing tough for me. I’ve always loved Marilyn Monroe, but DAMN if my favorite thing about her isn’t this quote right here:
“If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”
Keep on brewing that true tea there, Ms. Monroe. (**thworp!**). I hold this WILDLY true for my own situation, and I put it here now as a notice to all those who are a part of my life. I love all of you to pieces, and you know I do. But honey(s)? You need to understand that I have truly been through hell and back, and will continue to have times where I must go through hell. If you’re willing to stay by my side as I go through this mess - Lyme, depression, a bad haircut, ANY of it - then I’ve got your back too. If not, there’s the door. Best of luck on your journey, but I simply am too tired and sad to have more negativity in my life than necessary.
Lastly, and as a bonus #3 point to be made, I would invite anyone who’s made it this far in this post to hold this mantra true to their own lives. Perhaps that’s what we can take away from Byting Back today, kids. Cut out the fat. Get rid of those in your life who are only willing to be a part of your life when you’re at ‘your best’. Cause honey, even in your worst, most depressed, most lonely moments you are a beautiful soul on this planet who deserves a bomb ass love story and killer friends and a solid family (biological or by choice). Anyone or anything else is dead weight that will only bring you down and keep you down longer.
Huh. Look at that. I feel better. I live to fight another day. I’m sure in a few hours my mind will start its decent again into the depression, but for now, in this very moment, I feel alright.
Be there for your friends and family who are battling depression. Give them reassurances that you’re there for them. With your support, they may win the battle.