We just finished reading Hatchet (by Gary Paulsen) in the reading class I teach. There's a part where Brain, the protagonist, loses all hope. I gave my scholars a homework assignment that asked, "What could Brian think about or do to feel hopeful again? What do you think about or do when you need to feel hope?"
Their answers surprised me in their maturity and depth. I had scholars who talked about praying, about reminding themselves that they can always try again, about seeking help from others. The one that stayed with me the most, though, was from my student Wil. He said that when he needs to feel hope, he thinks that he is loved and that people care about him. What a strength to have! I don't know what other people's lives are like, but experiencing depression as I do, I know that my mind can very easily disregard the positive facts, and I have been caught countless times in the trap of thinking that no one cares for me/I am not loved. There is so much power in remembering that people care, that you are loved. I envy him finding this strength at such a young age. I didn't even begin to know it till my mid- to late-teens or early twenties.
Everyday as I move forward, I find that the little things do work. They really, really do. Enough sleep, enough food, getting out in the world and apart from my head. I don't believe in forcing myself to do things. There is such a harried, utterly stressed, unhealthy feeling to that. But I do believe in pushing myself, which has a distinct emotional difference for me. It starts with a desire that already exists, and is more of a movement through reluctance or a wading through fear than a propulsion to care, as I find forcing to be. It is driven by hope rather than anger or frustration. Forcing makes me feel injured once I have made myself do whatever it was, but pushing makes me feel relieved or proud or clear afterwards. And thankfully, I am in a place, and have been for the past few years, that I desire to feel better (because Gotye is right, "...you can be addicted to a certain kind of sadness....")
Now, because I have desire, I can push myself to actually do that thing I want to do, whether it's getting together with friends, or going on a bike ride, or applying for a job I'm afraid I might not be considered for. I have found strength in this, too. In taking the little steps forward, in knowing myself enough to know when it's appropriate to stay inside and when it's better for me to go out, even when it's hard.
I am so grateful for forward movement. For movement! My sister wrote a poem once, and although I don't remember the line, I do remember the image: Walking through life with boxing gloves up, ready to defend herself. She talked about feeling exhausted from doing so for so long.
I feel like depression is often like that. There's just so much internal noise to fight through, every day, to live the life that I want to live. And it can wear on me. Imagine struggling with the choice to open your bedroom door, in order to imply that you are home and willing to socialize, knowing that it will help you but feeling less than 1% desire to do so. Imagine wrestling with yourself about whether it's worth it to get fully ready for the day, or to feed yourself, or to actually get ready for bed, instead of scrolling down and down and down, endlessly, on your newsfeed. It can just grind on you, for those little deeds to be conscious decisions that must be made, rather than automatic parts of a routine.
For me, it's not every day. There are stretches of time when I feel full of energy and motivated to take on the world, one goal at a time. I take advantage of those times when I can, because I know they may end without much notice. And I am thankful for the times, evermore frequent, when, despite not feeling motivated to do much of anything, I choose to do at least one something, and find happiness in what I did. So it may take me two weeks to fold laundry because it's not the first something I chose to push myself to do, but it does get folded now. Heck, there's laundry to fold!! I'm unashamed to say that's a victory.
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