Depression | Bethany Bassett

Tag: Depression

No Week’s Too Hard For Chocolate

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This has been a hard week, though I don’t exactly know why. Alien mind probes in the middle of the night? Psychotic ninth-month hormones sabotaging my sense of happy? Mental leprosy™? Of course, hard weeks wouldn’t be doing their evil duty unless they hit me over the head each time I tried to write or smile or do anything more enjoyable than laundry, so I started the weekend with a house full of clean clothes, no blog entries to show for it, and a headache. Woe.

But then this morning dawned with the perfect mix of blue-sky radiance and glittering breeze that makes me lust for October. And though we couldn’t go downtown to elbow our way through the huddled masses at EuroChocolate*, we spent a relaxing morning with a lovely friend at one of Tuscany’s rare outlet malls. Which included a Lindt store. Which served Varesino. Which is what coffee would be if it died of too much happiness, went to chocolate heaven, and resurrected in a tiny glass with frothy milk. ::Dying of happiness at the memory::

Plus, we finally got a set of glass espresso cups so we can trick our guests into thinking we are 1) grown-up and 2) cool. Plus, Natalie got to expend weeks’ worth of energy and giggles on the playground. Plus, the Italian hills along our drive were the kind of beautiful I can sink into like a Jacuzzi.

So, this week in summary? Not so very hard at all.

*Due to Operation No-More-Contractions-Until-I-Get-Health-Insurance-On-Tuesday-That’s-Right-I’m-Talking-To-YOU-Uterus!

8Oct

Bipolar Calendar

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Some days, dusty floors and dirty dishes loom like precipices between me and my hopes, squarely blocking the path to fulfillment. Other days, they seem as familiar and unassuming as old friends, offering the quiet satisfaction of caring for my family.

Some days, being a mother is just another chore on a too-long list, and when the chore regenerates itself for the fifth–and then the fifteenth–and then the fiftieth time, I can feel my bones wearing through. Other days, it is a dizzying gift, and each moment I get to spend with my little girl warms my heart to life like sunshine.

And food, of course… Some days, our hereditary need to eat feels like a curse, pinning me to the stove with the weighty expectation that I will produce something edible, and then pinning us to the table to fill our demanding stomachs yet again. Other days, mealtime presents a delightful creative challenge–think “Ratatouille” without the rats or the France–and gives us a lovely way to relax.

I wish I could pry open the secrets of each day, to find out what magic makes some float and what snags others down into the silt. What makes sunshine glaring vs. cheerful? What makes an unscheduled 24-hour block daunting vs. freeing? What makes work wearisome vs. satisfying? How do I vacillate so easily between days when breath itself is pure happiness and days when even my precious family is not enough?

I’m afraid that the only secret is that my life has chronic bipolar disorder… and they don’t make medication for calendars yet.

25Sep

Unstuck From the Molasses Swamp

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I woke up this morning already wading two feet through the floor. Between yesterday’s toddler overdose, the callerless phone calls at 1 a.m., and the overnight transference of all my remaining brain cells to the baby, I started today with the mental acuteness of molasses. (IQ in 2002: 130. IQ this morning: Ooooze.) If I had been capable of conscious thought, it would have sounded something like this: The dishes are piled around the sink, the floors are sticky, the refrigerator is empty, my daughter is needy, my husband is gone, and if I get out of bed today, I will surely die.

Right on cue, the phone rang. I choked on the momentary bout of panic I experience every time I realize I will have to communicate solely in Italian but answered it anyway. And the cheery voice of Help replied.

Now, I am the kind of gal you often see lying semiconscious on the floor with a fractured hip, flames bursting out of the stove, and a tornado tearing off the roof in the next room who will not ask for help because she doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone. Plus, she is sure she can fix it all herself, even though she is neither a surgeon, nor a fireman, nor Zeus. Nor, apparently, capable of dragging her 8-month-pregnant self through a day of banal household duties alone.

So I didn’t exactly call for help, but I allowed myself to be the damsel in distress that I unquestionably was today. Graziella flew in first, like Superman, rescuing me from the drafty ledge of grocery shopping and taking poor, cabin-feverish Natalie to the playground for an hour. Then Mari showed up for a chatty lunch so that my aura could shift from beached whale to “Sex in the City.” She and Graziella put their superpowers to work doing the dishes and sweeping the floor, while I lounged back wanting to cry from relief. Heike sent me a heartwarming package stuffed with enough chocolate to make me swoon and a soccer ball to be Natalie’s bosom companion for the next few hours. Vanet and Maria bounced by to mop the floors, clean the bathroom, and bestow on us a stuffed duck and a dazzling array of cookies. Then another Maria called to apologize for not coming by and promise an outing with Natalie tomorrow.

Though I’m still ending the day fatigued and straining to breathe through the crushing weight of my abdomen, I feel full rather than drained. I feel the familiar pang of guilt too, as if gratefulness were a vice, as if I’ve wrongfully indebted myself to others. But it’s not debt; it’s a gift. And as I watch Natalie play delightedly with her new soccer ball and duck, I realize it’s not so bad to be on the receiving end of people’s generous hearts.

I want to say something more eloquent and profound, to give proper homage to the beautiful souls who have lifted my day out of swampy futility, but I’m already typing like this,

and do keep in mind that my brain resembles this,

so I’ll do us all a favor and stop

2Sep

September Slump

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I’m in a droopy mood right now, though I shouldn’t be. The sunshine today has been so light and fluffy, and lemon meringue breeze is still floating in through our wide-open windows. Natalie has hardly stopped singing all day. Plus, even though the spiky green germs gouging out the inside of my head exempt me from having to be productive, I was able to write for 2-1/2 hours this afternoon. I should feel like tap-dancing in a glittery dress, not pulling on yoga pants and burying my face in a pillow.

It’s frustrating that my brain cannot manage to stay in a happy place for longer than five minutes at a time. I really don’t try to be moody or complicated or all the other adjectives usually reserved for women during PMS. I just can. not. manage. to feel like I’ve climbed high enough on my list of “Shoulds” to justify feeling good about myself. And yes, I realize that’s both absurd and counterproductive. I realize that with my personality, I will always come up with “Should do” lists too long and time-consuming for me to make much of a dent.

So, where this entry is going, I have no idea. I don’t have any neat, pre-packaged revelations that I can tie a ribbon around and bestow upon my psyche. Even if I did, I hang out with the kind of guilt that is completely impervious to logic. No chance of reasoning my way to good cheer, guaranteed.

Maybe it’s just overflow from last September, when I started a teaching job that nearly sucked the life out of our family and made me want never to teach again. Or maybe from the previous September, when I was a cleaning lady–the only job I could find that didn’t require putting newborn Natalie in daycare–and feeling 200 degrees of unfulfillment. Of course, there’s always the September before that, when I found myself stocking shelves, trying to come to grips with an unexpected pregnancy, and feeling utterly lost in the world. I guess I don’t have much hope in Septembers anymore.

I miss starting school at this time of year (nerd alert… but you probably already knew that). I loved jumping into challenges that came with syllabi and final exam dates and objectives I knew I could handle. I even liked the deadlines, because I knew once each date came, I would have accomplished something definite. Now, I feel like I’m struggling to fit motherly and housewifely duties into an academic life that I don’t have rights to anymore.

I still don’t have any glossy way to wrap this up, but I am hoping upon hope that this September will end my three-year trend of soul-numbing, joy-crushing days… that I can wake up each morning excited about what I get to do… that even if all I do is mother my daughter and love my husband and take care of the little tasks of survival, I can feel valuable at the end of the day.

28Aug

Insomnialus Maniacus

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This is my fifth sleepless night in a week. If this doesn’t stop, I am sure to go legally insane and start biting people.*

I hate sitting down to write only because I have nothing else to do with my ADHD brain. I’d rather write from inspiration, or at least valiant work ethic. And I’d rather sleep at night.

I’m tired of being bullied by blank pages when I sit down to work. I’m tired of days ending abruptly and without closure, their tedium spilling over into each new morning. I’m tired of feeling like the only person on the planet who can’t manage to do simple things like sleep and be Martha Stewart.** Mostly, I’m just tired.

Anyone know a cure for insomnia/sporadic writer’s block/general slumpiness? I’m leaning towards warm milk spiked with LSD…

* Not necessarily in that order. ::Chomps at bit::

** Ornamental frozen napkin rings, anyone?

20Aug

2 A.M. Delirium

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Welcome to One Of Those Nights, the dark, sticky kind that prevents me from finding the magical hollow in my pillow that will quiet the clamoring from an entire unwritten week. Thus, my cure for insomnia: coaxing thoughts out of my tired brain and through my fingertips to freedom.

Of course, now that I’m out of bed and geared with laptop, I have no idea where to start. Every day is woven with countless emotions, a plethora of new vocabulary words, and a minute-hand steadily ticking off educational experiences. I couldn’t begin to accurately describe what my mind goes through on a daily basis, but I would hate to forget this time period… its unique mixture of confusion and satisfaction and — unbelievably — relaxation… the struggle of uprooting and the contentment of resettling.

Dan says I function much better as an Italian woman than I did as an American woman, and I think he’s right. All the repetitive daily activities that used to depress me seem to have a purpose here, even if that purpose is just practicing the language or getting some exercise. People’s genuine friendliness makes me want to leave the house and be part of society rather than hole up with my computer. Plus, I pretty much adore the built-in naptime that comes with life here. Every morning, I wake up a little less in the realm of the unfamiliar, and every night, I fall asleep feeling a little more at home.

I can feel this post teetering on the verge of incoherent rambling, so I’ll put my thoughts back to bed for the night. Stay tuned for next time, when I will try to write something that sounds a little less like 2 a.m. delirium…

1Aug

The Growing Lack of Anticipation

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I’ve been living inside of a to-do list the last several days. The result: far greater productivity and far less giddiness than I’d hoped. I miss the agonizing buzz of joy that used to haunt me for weeks leading up to kid’s camp. The wriggling, sleepless nights… the obsessive daydreams… the hilarity exploding like a string of grenades in my mind… I’d like it all back now, please.

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