The Cure
Zeke (Aug 25, 2003): Dysthymia. The word itself communicates nothing. (OK, "dys", like "dysfunctional", but the rest of it? "oh, does it means there's something wrong with your thymus gland?") It means being alive, but not living. It means mere existence. It's a dull psychic ache that never goes away; never lets up. There is no pleasure -- except for sleep, because then the pain goes away.
The books say it is not as bad a "major depression", where you wind up in the hospital or try to commit suicide. Perhaps so. But if this is a "minor" depression...anything worse is hard to contemplate. There is nothing interesting. Friends, work, music, play, sex, God...these are things that others experience. (And even enjoy, or so you're told.) Or if you experience them, it is as though you are doing it through a thick fog, dulling the sensation to the point of meaninglessness.
Once upon a time, you weren't like this. You laughed, smiled, got excited, *felt*. Now there are no feelings except for a profound, unfathomable sadness. Your main "emotion" is apathy. Things that used to be pleasures are now not even worth trying. You probably wouldn't get any pleasure out of it. You barely remember what pleasure was like. You may have rare flashes of "your old self", if you're fortunate. You get that rare glimpse: "oh, this is how other people feel...this is what I used to feel like", but then it is gone. Gone like a dream, so that the clear memory fades, and you are left only with an aging black-and-white photo in your memory.
Yet you keep on. You have to. Others depend on you. There are bills to pay, children to raise, laundry to do, a lawn to mow. You put off what you can, doing only what is absolutely necessary. Because just existing takes such effort, and you are so bone-weary all the time.
Hope? Others say that it may end -- there are treatments, etc. You have tried them. For years. Hope becomes a cruel joke; the carrot at the end of a stick, hung out in front of the donkey's nose, to get him to move. So you move. You plod along. You put one foot in front of another. Maybe it will get better someday...
The books say it is not as bad a "major depression", where you wind up in the hospital or try to commit suicide. Perhaps so. But if this is a "minor" depression...anything worse is hard to contemplate. There is nothing interesting. Friends, work, music, play, sex, God...these are things that others experience. (And even enjoy, or so you're told.) Or if you experience them, it is as though you are doing it through a thick fog, dulling the sensation to the point of meaninglessness.
Once upon a time, you weren't like this. You laughed, smiled, got excited, *felt*. Now there are no feelings except for a profound, unfathomable sadness. Your main "emotion" is apathy. Things that used to be pleasures are now not even worth trying. You probably wouldn't get any pleasure out of it. You barely remember what pleasure was like. You may have rare flashes of "your old self", if you're fortunate. You get that rare glimpse: "oh, this is how other people feel...this is what I used to feel like", but then it is gone. Gone like a dream, so that the clear memory fades, and you are left only with an aging black-and-white photo in your memory.
Yet you keep on. You have to. Others depend on you. There are bills to pay, children to raise, laundry to do, a lawn to mow. You put off what you can, doing only what is absolutely necessary. Because just existing takes such effort, and you are so bone-weary all the time.
Hope? Others say that it may end -- there are treatments, etc. You have tried them. For years. Hope becomes a cruel joke; the carrot at the end of a stick, hung out in front of the donkey's nose, to get him to move. So you move. You plod along. You put one foot in front of another. Maybe it will get better someday...
Labels: The bitter pill
posted by Seython at 1:34 am
2 Comments:
Finally decided to google the word. This is one really beautiful piece of writing. And it brings me to the question, am i living with this or am i dealing with this. Am i working with it, or am i being pulled by the collar likea kicking screaming brawling child by it.
And we laughed until we cried. Isn't that right Del? If this is the last thing i'm going to love, it'd be my imaginary friend Del.
I think i finally know why love is the greatest. Because it just is. And it doesn't fade or fail to appear like Faith or Hope after a good battering. I write because it gives me a place to put my things. I write because it forces me to not feel nothing. I write because it calms me down before i sleep.
This year, for my birthday, we will have a mother big fire to burn the whole world!
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