Like the varied strains of cannabis or the flu, there are varied strains of depression. I’m pretty much an expert on this, having experienced many of the shades of depression during my 37 years on this planet—mild, moderate and severe spells. In the most severe cases, I’m left with the cognitive capacity and physical momentum of a lobotomized sloth. But lately I’ve been wondering if the moderate kind of depression is actually more dangerous. Sure my synapses function just enough to help me create thoughts but the thoughts are things like that I’m a worthless piece of shit who should be dead. Is that really better?
Because here’s the thing: in the more mild depressions, I often don’t even realize I’m even having a depressive episode. Sure, I’m more tired than usual, more lackluster and definitely not as silly or spunky as normal. I’m certainly not buzzing around Los Angeles hitting parties or gallery openings or karaoke bars or the newest farm-to-table joint on Sunset.
But not only am I not buzzing around Los Angeles; I’m also probably not doing much of anything. Since I’m just mildly depressed, there’s no way I’m sleeping or sobbing my eyes out all day. But if I’m not working, chances are I’m just sitting on the couch staring, wondering why I don’t have the wherewithal to pick up a book, watch a show on Netflix, sit down to write and, now that I’m teaching full-time, draw up a lesson plan. I’ll just sit and stare, sit and stare, and the more I sit and star, the more I want to sit and stare and do absolutely nothing.
I have a laundry list of goals, including publishing multiple books (I haven’t published one), touring the world, finding love and even going back to making art but I have very little—if any—motivation during these states of mild depression. It’s also possible that the reason my motivation takes a nosedive is that I have too many goals—just thinking about how to accomplish them all overwhelms me into paralysis. I suppose I could “chunk them down” into manageable little portions, as is suggested online on both wellness and how-to-succeed blogs, but doing so only overwhelms me more because then I would have no excuses for being overwhelmed.
It’s not good to have little motivation in our society. Nope, not in America. Starting at a young age, we’re taught that acquiring motivation should be a top priority. Teachers loathe students without drive, and employers are understandably even meaner about it. Lacking motivation in today’s America is akin to smoking—you’re a horrible person, you should be shot, you suck, you’re an embarrassment, and yes, you’re a failure. It’s extra frustrating that, as a bipolar person, my motivation can wax and wane dramatically. If I’m up, I’ve got a plethora of ideas and I’m revved up enough to at least work on them, though chances are I won’t follow through with much since I’m so all over the place.
Writing is especially difficult when you’re fighting a low-level of depression. Your word-recall falls into the pathetic range, and the cursor blinks a lot longer than usual. This means it takes you three times as long to write an essay of the kind I’m writing right now, which, for a freelancer who’s trying to make ends meet, really blows. You start and stop a sentence 70 times because nothing seems to be working, the words aren’t flowing and despite knowing deep within yourself that that this brain freeze is the result of neurotransmitters gone awry, you can’t help but hate yourself.
For the past three months, I have read no books because my brain has been flat. I haven’t worked on my own books because I’ve been seemingly incapable of composing a compelling sentence. As all of this has been happening, I didn’t think I was depressed; I just have felt certain that I sucked. My brain was a mush of overwhelmed, and everything seemed impossible.
So that’s me in a mild depression. I’ve got no desire to do anything, and all the while people are skipping around outside with their big white smiles and their small attainable goals—mailing this or mailing that, fixing this or fixing that, and then gathering up the quarters for the laundry, and, ultimately, washing that laundry. And I really think that after enough of these mild, moderate and severe depressions, along with some ADD and the side effects of my psych meds, these spells of low motivation have added up to greatly impact my life for the negative.
To provide some insight into my brain right now, here’s what it’s telling me: at 37, shouldn’t I have some books published? I mean, I’ve got four completed novels but none of them have been polished well enough to send out to agents. Maybe my soured brain impacts my professional and artistic drive, but I’ve grown weary of battling mental lethargy and lack of pleasure in intellectual or creative pursuits. Periods of this kind of depression take up at least a third of my year, probably more if I’m honest with myself.
The sad thing is this kind of fluctuation in motivation has been with me since adolescence. One semester I’d have straight A’s and the next semester I’d tank horribly. Even in college, I’d oscillate between hyper studiousness and complete indifference. My best periods of productivity, including as a writer, come when I’m at baseline mood—not hypomanic or depressed, just nice and grounded. But even with the meds, that perfect mood doesn’t rear its head often.
The only thing that’s helped the intense self-flagellation that arises from the inability and lack of desire to even pick up a book is to get into the acceptance state. Damn, is that hard. I care perhaps too much about what I’ve accomplished or am accomplishing, as I had such high hopes for myself when I was a kid. But I know that I won’t find any measure of peace at all unless I choose to be okay with myself and my life exactly as they are. Instead of doing this, most days I decide to just bludgeon the shit out of myself.
It doesn’t help that I have some friends who are full of energy, little buzzing bees and butterflies who are always on the move doing something interesting. Unlike me, these friends seem to be able to muster a consistent amount of energy to leave their homes even when work or other nonnegotiable circumstances don’t demand doing so. They’re at the gallery openings, the karaoke bar and the new farm-to-table restaurant when I’m at home discovering a dirty spot on the white wall I’ve been staring at all week.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever accept this state of non-productivity and low motivation. My only saving grace is that these periods eventually end. I have to remember that. Sure, all of this depression has impacted my professional success and certainly my ability to earn a decent living. But I’ve also escaped death many times and suffered from a potentially deadly strain of alcoholism. And hell, I’ve even stopped smoking…again.
So maybe I’m getting all bent out of shape over nothing. Getting sober and getting out of the psych unit…those are pretty bitchin’ accomplishments. Selling those books—well, that can come down the line.
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