Don't ask me why I'm sad
Don't ask me why I'm sad
What writing can do for a depressed heart, and how other people's art keeps us alive.
Welcome to week three, season three of The Messy Middle.
This would normally be a paid post, but I think everyone could use a little reminder that they are not alone. If you’re feeling sad, my heart is your heart today.
CW: mention of suicide/suicidal depression. *Note: this newsletter might not flow how most of my newsletters normally do. This is where my mind is now, and I’m letting it be. In spirit of this season’s theme, I’m showing up as-is. I hope you’ll flow with me, even if it’s jarring, even if the water is murky, even if we just sit in the stillness for a little while longer.
When I’m depressed, I tell people.
I spent the better part of my 20s in and out of depression. Mental health was still stigmatized and people didn’t share their diagnoses like their horoscopes. If you were depressed, something was wrong with you. People imagined straight jackets and asylums at the utterance of a diagnosis.
As MOST of us know now, mental health diagnoses are not equivalent to needing restraints and 24 hour supervision (although to be honest, sometimes that sounds really nice).
Mental health exists on a living, breathing spectrum. I can feel depressed but not be in a depressive episode. I can be in a depressive episode but not be suicidal. I can have suicidal thoughts and not feel depressed. It’s incredibly complex and dynamic, our mental and emotional world, and that’s the thing: it’s an entire universe.
read more about my depression/thoughts on suicide in my book
So when I get depressed now, I tell people.
Not because everyone deserves to be included in my universe, but because I shouldn’t have to hide an experience that is universal.
To name my depression is to say, “look, I know you might not understand this—some days I don’t myself—but this is a real thing I’m dealing with, and I shouldn’t feel ashamed of what is real.”
don’t ask me why I’m sad i'm already ashamed for not knowing.
When I tell people I’m depressed, 5 times out of 10, someone asks me why.
On Sunday I told my boss I was depressed, and he said “why?”
On Monday I told an acquaintance I was depressed and she said “what happened?”
On Tuesday I reminded myself that not everyone has a seat at my brain table, but sometimes I don’t know who does and doesn’t without inviting them first.
In response to both of them, I said:
“Because I struggle with depression, and sometimes it gets bad. Right now, it’s bad.”
I’m pretty sure the girl said something akin to “it really do be like that” and my boss jumped up and down in his overall shorts onesie and said, “you know what you gotta do, you gotta just run and run and keep running and then it’ll never get ya!”
Sound advice.
I told him running doesn’t work—it’s why I’m here in the first place.
Running is counting calories and drinking wine and staying out late at night.
Running is sex with strangers and strange online orders and sleeping late.
Running is moving faster than my mind so that my body and my brain are never on the same timeline, and in some twisted fashion, I can escape them both.
i wish my heart knew things my body did or rather my body could hold the knowledge of my heart.
The more I run, the more I run.
Until my feet give out and my mind is so far away from the running that my legs don’t know what is forward and backwards, and I collapse.
Collapsing this time looked like 12 hour sleeps and dreams of losing Milo. Ex husbands and lovers and their mothers visiting me in my sleep. Losing my appetite and losing my desire to try and feed my body, followed by 4:00pm beers until my desire not to eat is overcome by my desire not to sleep, and nothing but food can stop my brain from ticking.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Fear of running out of time. Fear of wasting it. Fear of finally wanting to occupy the space of time but not knowing what to fill it with. Fear I have already run out, and there is nothing left for me.
“What will get you up in the morning?” My therapist asked me.
“That’s the thing,” I told her.
Nothing.
This is when I know it’s depression and not PMS.
This is when I know it’s depression and not stress.
This is when I know 24 hour supervision might be nice, because at least I’d have a schedule to follow instead of one to make. Tick tock. Tick tock.
This is when I know the stories in my head are lies—old tales that have tricked me before but I won’t let fool me again.
I’m not worthless. I’m not hard to love. I’m not a failure. I’m not irresponsible. I’m not a lost cause. I’m not damaged. I’m not too much. I’m not not enough.
“I’ll make my reason to get out of bed that I don’t want to be a piece of shit,” I told her.
She laughed and said, “well ok, that’s one way to go.”
Tracking wins instead of losses.
This morning I rolled over and looked at my clock—it was 9:30am.
If I get up now, it’ll be the first time I’ve gotten up before 10am in a week. Great. An hour earlier than yesterday. That’s nothing to be proud of. But I don’t want to be a piece of shit so if I don’t get up now, I will be. Damn this would have been a win months ago. Your brain is fucked rn Rach. Imagine if you texted your ED Recovery chat and told them you woke up before 10—they would all respond with a resounding “hell yes, that’s a win!”
That’s a win.
A game I used to play with my depressed-ie bestie last year when I was suicidally depressed was “Ws and Ls”—throughout the day we would check in with “Ws” (wins) of the day—these could be as small as “I brushed my teeth” or as big as “I finished that homework assignment I’ve been avoiding!”
Small wins to keep track of to try and counterbalance the constant “Ls” (losses) our brains selectively chose. An attempt to slowly rewire the lenses to focus on what was working, instead of what wasn’t.
We are the stories we tell ourselves.
Eventually, small wins write new stories.
I woke up before 10am today—that’s a win.
Last night I didn’t binge—that’s a win.
This morning I am writing my newsletter—that’s a win.
I had breakfast today for the first time in a week—that’s a win.
Most of my brain still reads this back with distain and judgment, but I am trying to remind myself that voice is not mine, and that story isn’t either.
We are the stories we tell others.
Numerous times in the last two weeks people have shared poems with me.
Last week, a woman I’d only just met shared notes from her journal, backdropped by the sea of plants and tapestries in her small apartment. We—the audience—captivated by her words and decadent mind, held eachother in a puddle on the rug at her feet. She was our queen in that moment, and we were inspired to rise to the occasion.
From our pockets we pulled poems and love notes. Words we’d never shared but all seemed to carry. Walking poets, wondering if what we wrote would ever be witnessed.
“I wrote a poem last night!” my boss exclaimed yesterday.
“So did I!” the acquaintance chimed in.
“Well then I better write one too,” I smiled.
We were all poets then—warmed by the curiosity and not-knowingness we all felt and finally shared. Free to express ourselves in the presence of more uncertainty without fear of being asked,
but why?
Today’s Tip: Re-write stories. Then write them again. Over and over and over.
Don’t be afraid to begin again. Don’t be afraid to tell your story. Don’t be afraid to re-tell it. Re-make it. Reclaim it. Nobody knows your story inside and out like you—dissect it however you please and decorate your platter to serve to your taste.
Make poems with everything that hurts.
if you ask me why i'm sad it's because flowers bloomed again this year but my petals are still closed and i'm scared no amount of sunlight will help me
Write before it makes sense. Write when it doesn’t. Write when it does. Write when it’s small when it’s long when it’s just one word and all that you can find are letters.
Gibberish is the language of lovers—we make nonsense sound like romance. Romance is nonsense, and nonsense is our heads in the sky, floating above where sense lives. Sense has no place in art—art is only questions. It’s the watcher who draws the answers.
they tell me i am the sun is that why it burns so much?
Play with your heart like it is art, and perhaps it will find beauty in it’s own chaos.
when nothing else makes sense, make art.
Today’s Journaling Prompt
I am going to invite you to write poems today. Instead of answering questions, ask them. Let words guide you where they want to.
And if you feel courageous to, share them with us in the comments. Your words might heal others in ways you could never imagine.
Rachel’s Recommendations
These are things that brought me to tears, to life, or to heart this week.
Video: Overcome Trauma Through Yoga. This video was assigned as part of my grad school homework this week. I’ve always been deeply inspired by Van Der Kolk’s approach to trauma work (yes I’m aware of his misconduct, and, I still have reverence for what his work has contributed to trauma healing—I believe people can do bad things and the good things they did can still be good) and this video was a reminder to me to stop running. Watch Now
Song: “Beacon” by MXRGAN. This song came on my discover weekly and now I really believe my phone is listening. It’s a reminder that we are both the giver and receiver—that it’s ok to need a light now and then. Listen on my “Songs that Crack the Heart Open” Playlist
Movie: Tik Tik Boom. The story of Jonathan Larson, the writer of RENT. This movie always brings me to my knees. It is a reminder that our passion and creative spirits are what hold people together, and that stories live inside of us because stories are all we really are. Watch on Netflix
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Writing, to me, is how I connect. My hope is to keep connecting with you no matter where life takes us—and your support tells me it’s ok to keep sharing.
Thank you for being here, for being you, and for your stories. You keep me going.
All my love,
Rachel
📚You can read chapter one of my book free here to feel less alone in your recovery, grief process, or managing your mental health.
📝Download my free guided journals here to build a daily practice that enriches mental wellness, inner child healing, or self-love.
👩🏼💻Take my Writing Masterclass here and learn to share your story online and impact others.
Whew. This was so, so powerful. Thank you for this -- for sharing yourself and your pain points so vulnerably.
I don’t have eloquent words this early in the morning to properly share everything this has made me feel but I will say this: I feel SEEN. I’ve saved it to my notes app and highlighted 16 different passages