Being Sad, Being Brave
For my friends, my family and my amazing therapist, who wouldn't let me let the squid win. And Joe Manganiello, for being shirtless.
You always hear about "anxiety and depression" as a pair. Laurel and Hardy, peanut butter and jelly, anxiety and depression. One rarely enters the spotlight without the other. But while I have worked incredibly hard to overcome (or, at best, learn to live with) my anxiety, depression rarely hit me. A bad day, yes. A bad job that created a few months of awfulness? Sure. But never anything longer than a summer.
A few years back, though, I lost whatever spark had made me me. Getting out of bed exhausted me. I wanted nothing to do with my friends, my hobbies or -- honestly -- my life. I didn't want to stop living. No way. I just wanted to hit pause until I could reignite that spark and feel OK again. I was depressed. And it felt a lot like treading water.
<Prepare yourself for a really long extended metaphor.>
Imagine you're at a lake one day, having a great time with all your friends. You decide to go for a swim, so you jump in and fearlessly float into the middle of the lake. You've gone just far enough that you can still see the people you love on the shore, but everything is quiet and you're definitely alone. Then BOOM! Something grabs you from below, like a giant squid that wants to pull you under with his giant squidy tentacle. You panic, lost. You're going under and you're pretty sure no one back on shore will hear you if you scream.
You begin furiously treading water to fight the squid.
You furiously tread water for minutes, hours, days, weeks. You keep your head up, you breathe. But any time you stop treading water, the tentacle tries to yank you under again. You cannot rest, so treading water becomes second nature. It's what you do. Your friends notice. They yell from the shore to see if you're OK. But how do you tell them you're prisoner to a giant squid without sounding crazy? They're so far away. Will they even hear you?
Determined friends swim to you and offer you a hand, but they can't rip you away from the squid. The best ones come back with a boat and try to haul you into it, but you're too tired to climb over the side. All you can do is tread water. All you will ever do for the rest of your life is tread water.
You try a million things to distract the squid and sometimes you get away -- far enough to think it's OK to swim to the shore again. Just when you think you're safe, the damn tentacle grabs you again and drags you back to the middle of the lake. You do this off and on for a day, a week, a month, a year.
You keep treading water.
Then one day, you've had enough. Fewer people line the shore, but the ones who are still there shout encouragement and love. You hear them and you miss them. You want to be on the shore again and DAMMIT THIS SQUID IS NOT GOING TO WIN. Instead of treading water, you kick viciously and violently and you cry and you swim harder than you've ever swum in your life and you close your eyes and you hope that this time is the time that you get beyond the squid's reach.
You open your eyes and see the people who love you and take the hands reaching out for you and let them pull you back onto the shore.
Treading water is hard work. Exhausting. So when you get back to shore, you won't be quite yourself yet. You cough and gag and are generally unpretty for a while. You're a little more reserved, a little nervous that whatever brought the squid out in the middle of the lake in the first place will find you again, even on land. You're a bit wobbly. A bit afraid. You watch the folks having fun on shore, but don't dare join them. Yet. You observe from the sidelines while you enjoy the sun on your face, the heat of the sand on your feet. The sharp blue of the sky.
You feel a small spark inside where before you only felt the squid and the absolute urgency of treading water.
You stand up, you walk forward and you finally, finally, dare to join everyone else in the pursuit of happiness.
And that? That's being brave.
You always hear about "anxiety and depression" as a pair. Laurel and Hardy, peanut butter and jelly, anxiety and depression. One rarely enters the spotlight without the other. But while I have worked incredibly hard to overcome (or, at best, learn to live with) my anxiety, depression rarely hit me. A bad day, yes. A bad job that created a few months of awfulness? Sure. But never anything longer than a summer.
A few years back, though, I lost whatever spark had made me me. Getting out of bed exhausted me. I wanted nothing to do with my friends, my hobbies or -- honestly -- my life. I didn't want to stop living. No way. I just wanted to hit pause until I could reignite that spark and feel OK again. I was depressed. And it felt a lot like treading water.
<Prepare yourself for a really long extended metaphor.>
Imagine you're at a lake one day, having a great time with all your friends. You decide to go for a swim, so you jump in and fearlessly float into the middle of the lake. You've gone just far enough that you can still see the people you love on the shore, but everything is quiet and you're definitely alone. Then BOOM! Something grabs you from below, like a giant squid that wants to pull you under with his giant squidy tentacle. You panic, lost. You're going under and you're pretty sure no one back on shore will hear you if you scream.
You begin furiously treading water to fight the squid.
You furiously tread water for minutes, hours, days, weeks. You keep your head up, you breathe. But any time you stop treading water, the tentacle tries to yank you under again. You cannot rest, so treading water becomes second nature. It's what you do. Your friends notice. They yell from the shore to see if you're OK. But how do you tell them you're prisoner to a giant squid without sounding crazy? They're so far away. Will they even hear you?
Determined friends swim to you and offer you a hand, but they can't rip you away from the squid. The best ones come back with a boat and try to haul you into it, but you're too tired to climb over the side. All you can do is tread water. All you will ever do for the rest of your life is tread water.
You try a million things to distract the squid and sometimes you get away -- far enough to think it's OK to swim to the shore again. Just when you think you're safe, the damn tentacle grabs you again and drags you back to the middle of the lake. You do this off and on for a day, a week, a month, a year.
You keep treading water.
Then one day, you've had enough. Fewer people line the shore, but the ones who are still there shout encouragement and love. You hear them and you miss them. You want to be on the shore again and DAMMIT THIS SQUID IS NOT GOING TO WIN. Instead of treading water, you kick viciously and violently and you cry and you swim harder than you've ever swum in your life and you close your eyes and you hope that this time is the time that you get beyond the squid's reach.
You open your eyes and see the people who love you and take the hands reaching out for you and let them pull you back onto the shore.
Treading water is hard work. Exhausting. So when you get back to shore, you won't be quite yourself yet. You cough and gag and are generally unpretty for a while. You're a little more reserved, a little nervous that whatever brought the squid out in the middle of the lake in the first place will find you again, even on land. You're a bit wobbly. A bit afraid. You watch the folks having fun on shore, but don't dare join them. Yet. You observe from the sidelines while you enjoy the sun on your face, the heat of the sand on your feet. The sharp blue of the sky.
You feel a small spark inside where before you only felt the squid and the absolute urgency of treading water.
You stand up, you walk forward and you finally, finally, dare to join everyone else in the pursuit of happiness.
And that? That's being brave.
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