It's baaaaaack

Last week, I re-wrote an entry in my blog that I erased several times because, try as I might, I couldn't connect emotionally with the words I was laying down. It was a sort of post-mortem to the trauma and drama of the preceding two weeks where, as my most faithful readers (all three of you) will recall, I couldn't get my shit to work. I had a feeling it would be important as something I could read in a few months, to remind myself of what depression is like, what panic attacks do and how, as bleak as they seem to me, they are both eminently surmountable, with time.

Well, I never figured on a relapse this quickly.

It happened for a reason, this time, completely atypical of prior attacks: I was supposed to help a friend out and, through sheer stupidity and lack of awareness, I ended up fucking things up for him to an unimaginable degree. I went into a meeting and I felt like there was a voice screaming inside my skull. Shortly afterwards, the subtle, nervous ticks started and the nausea came back. I left the room a couple of times and basically muddled my way through it.

That night, I was supposed to go to a birthday party. I made it to the bar but as soon as I walked in, I became gripped with this inexplicable panic slash rage. I simply had to get out. I made my hellos, followed them with some goodbyes and stepped out. My heart was racing, my breath was short and before I'd made it to sixth avenue, I had thrown up twice on the sidewalk.

I went straight home (felt very cold on the train but the nausea had gone), turned the lights off and went to bed. Of course, I couldn't sleep but I lay down for an hour or so before I felt well enough to get up. When I did, I was ravenously hungry and went to Wendy's for a burger and fries. I took it home and felt better.

So what's the deal here, you may well ask. Fucked if I knew. Certain things are clear enough in my head that I can list them and fit them into their proper places and tell you what I know about myself, both long term and short term. What to do about it is a different story.

So what do I know? Well, I know I've had a rough couple of days lately: work has been trying, finances have been tight, certain things that I had hoped would pan out by now, haven't. That said, I've been very happy, very positive and brimming with energy and confidence, for well over a week now. I went out both days last weekend, one of them with a dear friend, and we had a very pleasant time. Life was as trying as ever with it's constant demands and stress, and yet I felt well equipped to tackle it head on and come out on top. I truly felt I was over this, at least for a good while.

That's because usually, when my depression is over, it goes into remission for a minimum of 4-6 months. The fact that it's re-surfaced this quickly, scares the shit out of me and just doesn't give me a precedent I can work with to understand why this is happening. Scared shitless, is how I would characterize my state right now.

I think the big reason I'm shitting myself is because I've always identified myself as a warm, bubbly person who has intermittent periods of dark, savagely isolated episodes. The clouds appeared but I always felt that they were an unfortunate stain on an otherwise brilliantly blue sky. This new shit makes me wonder if this is changing and if things will ever be the same.

Another thing that scares me is that my depression is never, ever triggered by anything specific; none that I can trace, at any rate. It just sort of spontaneously occurs and I've always been fine with that. In fact, I've always prided myself in being strong enough to handle adverse developments in life, so this conclusion has also happened to be a convenient one. It allows me to continue to think that getting a panic attack is a random occurence. That it's not really a weakness in my character. That I'm just unlucky to have it.

One (kind of) unique feature that I haven't read too much about is that when I get depressed, it only takes a short period of time for this depression to turn to rage. It's an intense and cold-steely hatred for the world that I almost instinctively direct inwards. That's not to say I won't let anyone else feel the effects. It's just that usually, by the time this stage comes by, I've succeeded in pushing most people away or at least, giving them a heads up that I need plenty of space.

I've concluded that rage is my way of avoiding being weak and accepting that I have a problem. I don't know if this is true but it certainly feels right to me.

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who feel it's only the world they have to worry about and that it always has the capacity to let them down and those who feel the only letdowns they're ever likely to encounter will come from them letting themselves down. I fall firmly under the latter camp. I'm not scared of the world (almost to a reckless level) and I've never been scared of a challenge..but I have almost no faith in my ability to be consistent in my emotions, my reactions or my desires.

With this relapse, I'm beginning to wonder if there's anything I can count on again. Things, dear lemmings, do not look good right now.

PS Please no messages of support or empathy. I really don't want to fucking hear it.