It sucks as in, well, sucks (duh). It also sucks as in pulls the life out of everything. With depression, severe depression, things that are enjoyable aren't. Activities that give pleasure don't. Endeavors that add meaning to life just aren't worth the effort.
I have been mired in a swamp of depression for weeks now. Oh, I emerge regularly to find that life still can bring joy – Christmas decorations, thank you notes from the grandkids, the kindness of my caregivers, the love of my husband, chocolates. But anything that requires effort on my part spins me back into the do-nothingness of depression.
Look at my list of blog postings. I haven't written anything since early December. My previous posting was two months before that. And it's not as if I have had nothing to say – there has been a lot going on in my life, a lot of things I would really like to share in my blog. But every time I sit down to write, I give up before I even start. It's just too much trouble to wait for the voice-recognition program to come up, just too much trouble to think of what to say and how to say it, just not worth the effort.
So I look at mindless pet videos instead. Or it I play computer pool. Or I look at online shopping sites when I know I have no intention of buying.
And then there's painting. I have one painting still on the easel, almost completed, a picture of myself and my daughter in our opening-day-at-the-races hats. It just needs a little more work, but that little amount takes more effort than I can muster. It is easier to let my depression come up with excuses: my hand is too weak; I need to much help to set up my palette; it's just not worth the effort.
So I ignore it. I can pass that painting a dozen times a day without looking at it, without noticing the paints or the brushes, the few pieces that still need finishing touches, the many blank canvases waiting for inspiration. Finding inspiration is too hard. Succumbing to depression is too, too easy.
This blog, this admission, may surprise a lot of people who know me. I am constantly being told, "You are handling this so well," or, "Your attitude is always so positive." That seems true, I know – and sometimes it actually is. Sometimes by attempting to be cheerful I can actually make myself so. Sometimes my depression will take time off, and I can actually feel upbeat. And sometimes it's just so embarrassing to admit such profound negativity to people who are trying so hard to help me.
And often, usually, the negative and the positive are interspersed and interwoven, both equally real. While I do hope to lessen, through a combination of medical chemistry and self-awareness, the downward pull of despondency, I don't ever expect to eliminate negativity or do without depression, not completely. As my neurologist said, "If you weren't at least a little depressed, you'd be nuts." ALS is, by its very nature, damned depressing.
And depression, trust me, sucks.
