My mental health took a surprisingly depressive turn recently.
I had a minor crisis last Saturday evening – a depressive bout of feelings of inadequacy, worthlessness, and blinding fear about the direction of my life. It came out of nowhere and I stopped what I had been trying to write and just broke down. The house was empty. I was alone.
I went to the roof to have a cigarette and clear my mind. I had already had two inscrutable breakdowns and, because I was alone, had no one there to comfort or temper me. While up there, I had what I thought was a clear epiphany but, in hindsight, was probably a figment of my battered and starved ego. I rushed to finish my cigarette, giddy and breathless, sure that I had figured out the first step in the direction of happiness. Downstairs, under the blinding fluorescent lights of the bathroom vanity mirror, I took the clippers to my healthy beard and cut it down to a heavy stubble. I could already see how weird this was going to turn out, but I kept going anyway. I shaved my entire face down to the skin – the first time that I had done so in over four years. It was a fatal error. Let me tell you something: the beard makes the man. Period.
I ππ½ looked ππ½ terrible ππ½
I expected to look surprising and strange, but years younger with a youthful glow. Nah. My skin was blemished and unhealthy, I looked like I had progeria, and, for the first time in my life, I felt my age. I knew I had fucked up. I said so many times to myself as I paced around the bathroom trying to make sense of what I had done. I was pathetically reduced to depressive tears again before the night was out. It sucked. I sucked – I was sure of that. And I hated myself. I hated everything about me.
I have always been prone to bouts of self-deprecating depression, especially when things in my life are not going the way that I expect.
My expectations are pretty high and maybe that’s something that I could try to change right away.
Something good did come out of this though – a blessed opportunity – thanks to my woman, whose loving guidance I cherish. She taught me how to take care of my skin and correct all of the issues that I had with it – some that I had not realized I had been complaining about for years. It’s been a week and I look at least three times better already. When she came back that night, we had a good laugh about my surprising transformation, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from feeling dejected and spiritless. She propped me up and made sure that I took a break from work, social media, and all stressors the next day. It was fantastic. By the end of that second night, I felt refreshed with new perspectives, ideas, and inspiration going into Sunday. It was … transformative. I think I’ll be taking a total break at least once a week now because it really seems to get the creative juices flowing.
Depressive episodes like this don’t always make sense, and they can seem to come out of the ether, entirely unprompted and without warning. If I understood them, then I would not be suffering from them anymore. The only thing that seems to keep them at bay for extended periods is doing the things that I love and being with the people that I care about.
Writing and Family. They help.
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