My non-resolutions

I was going to post my sort of, maybe, not really New Year's resolutions, but then I decided that my general rule of never making resolutions was more practical.

Anyway, I don't want to make resolutions. That sounds like too much work, and I am horrible at doing work.

Every time I say this to my mom, she says something to the effect of "Life isn't all fun and games." But now that I am all adult and (mostly) self-sufficient, I really don't see why not. Also, while there are many people in the world who are quite capable of getting by on willpower and the "shoulds" of life, I am not one of them. I figure, instead of making myself miserable by accusing myself of having no willpower or ambition or something, I should instead make the "shoulds" of life into the "yays" of life. Or something to that effect.

Plus, I am more inclined to do something if I feel like I have a choice in the matter anyway.

Also also, if I end up enjoying the process of doing it, I will in general continue to do it, whereas if I don't... I probably won't.

On depression: watching it

Many, many thanks to fannishly for giving me the permission to write about my experiences with having someone with bipolar and bulimia as a roommate. And of course for just being a cool roommate in general. But I want to add that this isn't a specific post on fannishly, but more on my experiences with my friends and family while I was depressed, as well as my experiences trying to be a friend to people who are depressed or mentally ill, and the experience in general.

This post isn't about depression per se, but on being friends with someone with a mental illness (or two), and on the general experiences of people who are close to or care about other people with mental illnesses.

And in case anyone takes it the wrong way, it isn't a condemnation of someone with a mental illness; rather, it should be an acknowledgement of how deeply a mental illness can affect many people's lives.

Just like any chronic illness, living with someone who has a mental illness, being friends with them, having a family member with a mental illness, all of it is very stressful. Depression is the one that I'm most intimately familiar with, but as stated above, my roommate and good friend has bipolar and bulimia. I'm not an expert on this. It seems to me, though, that the heart of much mental illness (at least the ones I've had experience with) is self destruction.

It takes the form of starvation, of apathy, of obsession; it always justifies itself. And it is so incredibly painful watching someone you care about destroy themselves, consciously or subconsciously. Mental illness always seems to be isolating; the very symptoms are ones that tend to alienate people just when support is needed most. And it is horrible watching and knowing this and still feeling the need to withdraw. You try to be a good friend or a good daughter, you know that someone you care about needs you, but you can't bring yourself to do anything or care because it is too tiring, because too much depends on you, because that weight on your shoulders is too tough to bear. You feel guilty and berate yourself for not being able to do anything. You constantly worry about saying the wrong thing. You restructure your life.

Sometimes you get angry at the person, even when you know that it's the illness speaking. Sometimes you get hurt. Sometimes you get confused. Even when you've gone through depression or illness, it's still hard to remember why someone you care about can't seem to get their life together. And when it's your first time dealing with mental illness, it's even more confusing. Someone in your life has drastically changed, they're not doing well, and you don't know what's going on or how to help. Every attempt to help seems to go wrong.

You never quite know what to expect. There's the day to day of not knowing what plans will be cancelled or kept, not knowing if you're going to meet up with someone who is ebulliently cheerful or withdrawn and sullen. You don't know when someone whose opinion you care about a lot will lash out at you. Something that makes them happy one day may make them suicidal the next.

I think the worst part for the person watching is the recursive nature of the beast. Every time your friend is feeling better, you start to get your hopes up. Every time the mental illness doesn't miraculously disappear, you feel disappointed. Being caught on that track of false hope and constant relapse is tiring; it feels like you're pouring your time and energy and strength and caring into a bottomless hole that will never be filled. Knowing that it's a cycle makes it so easy to stop caring because there's no end in sight, no promise of relief. And it's so hard not to feel angry or tired, it's hard not to disengage, especially when someone you care about is lashing out at the time.

I don't think that anyone should ever feel forced to stay, and I especially wouldn't encourage anyone to stay in an abusive situation, no matter how needy or ill the other person was. For me, one of the hardest things was trying to stay kind, trying not to be cruel when I was angry, because it would be like kicking someone who was already down.

It's hard to write this as well. There's the perspective of the depressed person, who desperately needs support and understanding and help. But then, there are so many other people it affects. What worked for me (hopefully) was to separate the person from the actions, separate the person from the disease. It didn't make things hurt less, but at least the despair and the anger and the hopelessness came without blaming the person, but rather, the illness. I think in the end, you just have to accept the way things are, without holding out or planning for recovery, because your life is now, you're in the moment, and promises of the future in depression are notoriously short-lived. And it's so hard and so sad to realize this, so heart-wrenching to think that someone in your life may always be in pain. It's so hard not to feel helpless. It's so hard to know that there really is nothing you can do.

You can't take responsibility. You can't get tangled up in the if-onlys. Sometimes the only thing you can do is admit to yourself that there's only so much you can do. You aren't a therapist, you aren't a psychiatrist. Your job isn't to fix things, but to help someone along on their own path to fix things. You can't make them take their meds, you can't make them stop injuring themselves, you can't make them promise not to kill themselves. Sometimes, all you can do is be there. Sometimes, you can't even do that because you're so tired and so hurt that even your best intentions come out wrong, and you only end up doing more damage.

You have to balance kindness with selfishness, because if you don't, you'll burn out, you'll care too much, and sometimes that's worse than caring too little. And I think people can care while still living their own lives. In the end, it's a delicate balance between giving and withdrawing, between your life and someone else's, between boundaries and open arms. Not a balance, actually, but a mixture; caring for yourself isn't a negation of caring for others, but an extension of it.

I don't want to make this sound like it is hopeless, because I don't think it is. I think friends and family help, and I never would have made it through without them. There's just that mix of feelings to be maintained, a careful check of emotional, mental, physical and financial resources to see how you can help and when, or if it's the time to take care of yourself for a little.

In the end, it's not the grand heroics that save the day, it's not the dazzling revelation of love that sweeps away depression, it's not the giant sacrifice that makes someone with a mental illness sit up, miraculously recovered. It's the day to day, sometimes the hour. It's a half-hour phone call slipped into the week, it's the casual email, it's the LJ comment or the mix CD. It's finding your own support network. It's doing all this despite knowing that it may only be a stopgap measure, it's giving resources that may never be returned. It's caring and being tired out and then trying again because you're human.

Index of "On Depression" posts