Word Vomit and Identity
I never know if I should add these prefaces, apologizing for my lack of correspondence, or if I should just jump into a topic. I also generally do a poor job o sticking to one topic. Instead I awkwardly brain dump, trying to both make up for lost time and capture my fleeting thoughts while I can. Sorry.
I’d say I’d do differently, but that would be a lie. I’ve tried with little success; the graveyard of Google-docs I’ve started has threatened to take over multiple accounts.
The thing is, I’m finding I need to write. And more so, I need to share. My depression gets unwieldy and suffocating when I’m not making things for anyone other than myself. Sometimes I can get through stretches of just doodling to keep the void at bay, but more often than not that isn’t the case. It certainly hasn’t been recently. My depression has been overwhelming. Consuming even. Every time I try to break free it drags me back under- and the longer I’m there the harder it is to get out again; When I’m struggling with creating, it just get harder and harder to create.
I don’t know how to break-through the compounding of inabilities other than vomiting all over the page. So here it is, my word vomit.
My youngest brother recently needed open-heart surgery. It was sudden, and unexpected.
The morning of the surgery I drove through DMV traffic to sit with my mom and wait for news on the operation- staying just long enough to see my brother stable and in recovery before driving home. Driving makes me anxious under the best of circumstances, and I drove my husband’s car which made me physically uncomfortable as well. Even though the surgery was successful, I don’t think I breathed that entire week. And then the depression hit hard.
It’s almost paradoxical. My brother is doing amazing and is tougher than any of us ever knew. So why did I feel so down? Why did tears well in the corners of my eyes and trickle down my cheeks with a sense of sadness that doesn’t usually accompany my depression? Shouldn’t I be relieved, proud of his strength, and joyful for his healing and future? What was going on?
I’ve tried to answer that question, and the best I’ve been able to come up with has been that this experience has challenged my sense of self. I’ve always been the sick one- navigating through chronic illnesses and disabilities. I’ve done the fighting, the surviving, the being strong - and yet I’ve never been through anything like open-heart surgery. So what does that mean about me?
He can get through that, cheerfully and bright, and I can’t even manage to do the dishes. My kids miss out on experiences and hypothetical opportunities because I am having a bad day. My house is a depression-fueled train wreck; a place of chaos. I have degrees and ambitions, and most of the time I can’t think clearly, or quickly, or consistently, like I want to.
When did this become my identity?? And why, WHY, am I invalidating my own experiences?
I don’t have an answer. Only questions, guilt, and shame. Only anxiety, self-doubt, and a longing to be something else.