Sharing Life Stories to Release Depression

Today is one of those days where, by writing about my woes and wondering about life lessons, I had an instance where “something” came through to me. This something doesn’t happen often, but when it does, gladness fills my heart and I feel a reinvigorated.

I have no real name for it and have called it many things: Great Spirit, God, Divine Presence, Spirit Guides, Creative Muses. Maybe someday I’ll know the who, but it usually doesn’t feel like it comes from any one spirit or from any one particular place. Suddenly, I’m just being filled, and I know it’s some kind of message.

“Pain shared is pain halved." Out of the blue, that quote came to me as I sat here in tears while writing about my current depression. It was more than just a thought; it was like the words were spoken directly to me. A simple quote, then the “presence” was gone leaving my mind brimming with words to expand on that phrase and my current emotional state.

Wow, I’d been depressed most the day yesterday and all last night! The whole thing with the scamming and thievery, which is escalating every day, and no one can seem to do anything about it, has put me on the ledge. The sword is getting too heavy to bear. (Is this another aspect of growing old?)

So, I was sitting here worrying about my computer. I'm afraid to do anything, look up anything on Google, FB, place any orders, etc. I’m even hesitant to send emails. Plus, I hate that I can't answer my phone -- I must get two-four scam calls daily.

Lately, I’ve forgotten what it is like to be happy. The negative outweighs the positive by a lot these days. Then I thought about what does make me happy. My only shining lights are a couple of awesome friends, kitties Tuli and Leo, my writing and my painting. (Writing that last line makes me see there is a lot that makes me happy.) However, the dark clouds keep closing in more and more.

And I don't want to have to keep bothering anyone with my woes. So, having that quote come to me lifted me. Came to me as I needed to hear it, I guess... and then I thought: I don't want anyone to have to share even half my pain. And yet, it is this very thing that I feel is one of my purposes in life -- not that I do it a lot -- but it's that anyone can tell me their darkest story and I will listen without judgement and only offer what simple words of wisdom I might have without making them feel they’re wrong by telling. 

For some of us, there are times when a story needs to be told over and over before we can finally let it go or be OK about it. It's about processing our experiences in life. It's a sharing and being witnessed. It's not about having someone "save" us or tell us what to do; it's just being listened to with compassion.

As I’m working on yesterday’s morning pages, and going over how everything seems to go wrong and wondering about the lesson, I thought: What if the lesson is that by my openly talking about my depression, others dealing with similar feelings might not feel so alone?

The sharing can open the door to light. Sometimes, someone else’s words can show us something about ourselves we weren’t acknowledging. Sometimes, having someone else see/hear us and not condemn us for thinking sad thoughts is all we need to put our boots back on and get to work.

The last thing (and something I fear) is always sounding like a woe-is-me person. I just have to balance the writing/talking about the sadness with something positive – like today I wrote a beautiful poem, or I made progress on a painting, or I discovered such and such, or Tuli and/or Leo…

Today, I am happy to have made a breakthrough emotionally. I’ve gained a better understanding of who I am and why.

 

Emotional Self Defense Part 2

This is what stirred in me on Saturday 

Again, writing morning pages, stuff deep inside stirs as I write about Friday.

This morning, I’m hitting on how I feel like all my pulling away from people is to protect myself. I first realized this is what I was doing when Mum was declining and clinging to me. However, now that I’m thinking about this, I’ve been doing this for a long, long time now and not realizing what it was. (And now I wonder, too, if this is what Mum did… in the end, there was only her and I.)

Of course, an old-friend’s words echo back to me as she’d always say, “It’s all about me.” She started that when that term started became popular, but with her saying it, I knew it was a put-down on me and how she felt about me. (She’s always been some kind of a do-gooder, but that’s not who I am. Oh, I want to be good. I’m just not personally into being… drat, I don’t have the words here… one of those… well, I just call them save-the-world-do-gooders, those who run to others’ sides to help them.

The bottom line is it IS all about me! I’ve had to protect myself from a young age my entire life. (Though I never realized that was what I was doing.) Maybe that’s what’s made me what I am, how I am, and who I am.

I’ve never vocally or physically fought back or argued. I’ve never told her how her snide comments made me feel less than and unworthy. I’ve never been able to outwardly defend myself. I just built inner walls and hid… and in many aspects, at least in physical company with others, the walls are getting thicker. I only have a couple people I feel I can be totally safe and open with.

And yes, I do feel guilty about that, but there’s something inside me that creates a volcanic, emotional, overwhelming… fear/anxiety... that makes all my walls come crashing down. I just can’t… go to funerals or do other of those kinds of supports, for instance. And yet, someone can sit one on one with me and tell me their darkest secrets, and I can handle that. How weird.                                               

Maybe it’s because all my life I’ve had to stand strong on some things because I felt so put-down-upon on so much. The few times I’ve tried to put myself out there with groups have been complete failures. I am the odd duck and not a sheep. I don’t fit in with the herds… and don’t want to. 

I’m not calling others wrong. They have the right to their beliefs. I just can’t do and/or participate when my entire being is screaming no. Pulling back and isolating is the only thing I can do to not bend to others’ wills when everything inside me is rebelling. I can’t live to others’ expectations.

Yeah, I’m still trying to figure it out. Maybe part of me always felt… how do I describe it… there’s just been something inside me that slams inner doors shut when I don’t feel safe. So, I need to alienate myself to protect that individualism, my uniqueness.

I’m still learning about it. Is it being selfish? But we don’t all have to be the same. Why do I have to be in the wrong just because I don’t want to be like others?

My mind is whirling around… there’s some kind of a breakthrough close, but I’m not there yet…

Lessons from the Past

The past few days, my morning pages have been interrupted by inner emotional ramblings and I feel I'm reaching a bit of a breakthrough in self understanding. 

The past helps make us who we are and what we are. Yes, there are still choices, but getting a better understanding of the past can help us move past any old hurts. Being able to talk about things to one another helps us also understand one another. That doesn’t mean we have to agree or like, but the stories help in understanding and with understanding comes better tolerance and acceptance.

And yes, there are times when we have to let go the past to move on. Sometimes, though, issues resurface, and when they do, what are the lessons to learn?

When the past pops up, which can drop me back into some extremely unhappy times, I also know I’m on the verge of a breakthrough. I still haven’t quite grasped it yet, but it’s close to my fingertips. I’m understanding myself better which in turn opens me to better understand others. (Too bad I am in my late years when coming to these realizations, ha-ha.)

But maybe that’s part of what wisdom is all about. I am able to release old grudges and hurts because I now have that wisdom of life to help me see how the past has made me who I am, and to accept this is who I am. This is nothing to be ashamed of or feel guilty about. We were not all made to be sheep. If we were, we’d all have preprogrammed robot brains.

The big thing is in recognizing that I have never been a follower, a sheep, part of the herd. Every time I’ve tried, I end up in a crash and burn. There’s always been something inside me that rebelled and refused to jump on popular bandwagons or buckle down to others telling me what I should be doing. That feeling can turn almost into a physical reaction when I’m being pushed towards something my inner being is rebelling against.

And, of course, that has caused tremendous inner anguish, especially when I was much younger and couldn’t fit in with my peers. There has always been some super strong conviction that makes me feel sick when I’m being forced to do or can’t agree to something. Which doesn’t mean it’s wrong, it’s just not right for me.

Unfortunately, those feelings and inner reactions often put me on the outskirts and makes me a loner, never fully belonging to anything. But, every time I sit here in tears over one thing or another, I know there’s something I’m learning.

And what keeps coming forth strongly is: It is OK to me! I don’t have be like everyone else. I don’t have to be a sheep. It’s OK to celebrate being an odd duck and thinking for myself.

When I think thusly, a content sense of something greater settles over me filling me with an inner peace and telling me I AM OK being me.

On Being Old 8 How the Elderly are Viewed

Do younger people just see old people as complainers? Are the elderly seen as curmudgeons? (Think “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In” and the Arte Johnson and Ruth Buzzi characters.) Does it seem like those oldsters are always finding fault with “young people nowadays?”

I know when I was young I didn’t want to hear some old geezer trying to tell me how I should act. The times were different. There were places to explore, life to live and experience. Who wanted to listen to some old guys talk about “When I was young …?” (But I also have to admit, I didn’t have much contact with anyone over 60 until I was in my 50s.)

Then, when my aunt went into a nursing home and we visited, I was appalled at seeing all these oldsters hunched over in their chairs with hardly any life in them. Or, their wheelchairs in circle with some young thing crowing, “Let’s play ball,” as she’d toss a beach ball to one. (That’s my image of nursing homes … not very appealing for end-of-life days.)

When I first moved to Bradford and saw what was happening at the Mountain View Senior Center, I was excited. What an awesome place for people to get together. There were many programs and groups, and the participants were wonderful, friendly and vibrant.  I told myself when I got older, I’d definitely join.

I tried to get my mother involved, but she wouldn’t go. Now, years later, I understand more. Mum reached the point where she loved people to visit, but she just didn’t have the gumption to go anywhere. Not everyone is highly sociable towards group settings.

I’m that way now. I find myself wanting to stay home more and more. I no longer want to be around groups of people. I’ve turned into one of these curmudgeonly old people. I can easily rant about these “young people nowadays.”

I sometimes wonder what happened to older cultures who respected their elders. When did old people start being locked away in nursing homes? When their children could no longer care for them? (I never want to be a burden on my kids.)

And, what happens at that point, when years of experience and wisdom are not honored or wanted? When no one is willing to listen, what happens to life purpose? When people stop visiting or calling, do the older folks become invisible? Do they feel unappreciated and unloved? Are they only relegated to senior events and centers with some young person providing entertainment to keep them occupied?

I no longer have the energy to do things, go places. And that’s hard being an artist who loves to share her work and participate in exhibits. Besides the lack of energy, there are the aching joints at walking around, dealing with stairs, getting in and out of the car, etc. Standing in one spot while chatting with someone is the worst … or waiting in line at the grocery store check-out.

Then, too, my curmudgeonly ways have me standing my ground on what I believe, ha-ha.

On Being Old 5 Living with Pain

As I get older, pain, in one form another, seems to be an almost always companion. I’m stubborn about running to the doctor’s (haven’t been in over 30 years except for one time when I had strep throat. I ­nd other ways to deal like ibuprofen, Olbas salve, essential oils, ice, etc.) Pain issues may be one aspect of an older person becoming invisible. (Becoming invisible is a topic I’ll talk more on later.)

Pain forces me to stay home, keeping quiet so I don’t sound like a whiner while trying to suck it up and be brave. Also, I fi­nd it embarrassing and humiliating when out in public and struggling to stand without showing pain. However, I think we should be able to talk about these things. After all, it is part of life. We shouldn’t have to be ashamed of being old or feel like we’re being pushed aside or that we no longer serve a purpose. We shouldn’t have to suffer alone or be relegated to being with others just like us. (And don’t even ask me what I think of nursing homes – I’d rather be dead.)

There was a time when elders were appreciated and honored. Some days it’s almost easier to say what doesn’t hurt. I chalk it all up to getting old … except when I do something stupid, like tripping and falling. I’ve been lucky most my life with those types of things. I’ve always had good balance. However, if I’m not paying attention and hurrying …

Like in 2019 when I took a header out on my deck. It happened so fast; I didn’t have time to brace myself (probably a good thing). My foot caught while stepping up, and I fell flat on my stomach, and hard. I saw the deck coming up and can’t believe I didn’t smash my face. What saved me was my chest. The worse injury was to my right knee and foot. The skin in those areas still show bruised areas three years later.

Then, there was a fall last month. That time, though, it was because my foot sunk in mud up to my ankle. The only bruise then was to my ego for taking a short cut across a damp, new grass area of the lawn. Although, any kind of a fall causes some aches and soreness just from jarring the body when momentum suddenly ceases.

The most recent fall was Jan. 23. I’d gone out to shovel the front porch and steps. Coming back inside, my toe caught the stoop and down I went slamming my knee onto the floor (thank God for carpeting). My scream scared the daylights out of Tuli and Leo and the two kitties took off. Thankfully, my momentum carried me forward so the door closed on the snow still falling outside.

I knew enough to lie still for a few minutes mentally accessing the damage then slowly moving little by little. I contemplated how to get up before actually trying to do so. I believe taking this time, breathing and calming down, allows the body and mind to pull together. I eventually was able to stand. I had to use a cane to get around.

As I write this three days later, I am much better, but walking is still difficult. Getting out of bed is still the hardest, especially if Tuli is sleeping with me as I try to maneuver my leg around her.

One of my issues with dealing with bad knees, achy feet, etc., is being short. Now that I’m not able to lift my legs well, I tend to scuff. (Scuffing has always annoyed me and now I’m doing it.) This also means stairs are a major issue, and “building to code” with a 7-7 ½ inch rise makes steps difficult. Both the fall in 2019 and this recent one had to do with a single step up.

With stairs, I have to consider if my knee(s) will hold my weight with the movement as I step up or down. I lean or hold heavily on railings all the time. But now, I also need to consider my other foot when climbing stairs, the foot that might drag behind. This was my downfall (pun intended) on the 2019 fall and now this one. Guess I’m not as attentive on these single step-ups.

One of my goals when moving to this house was to set myself up for my older years. The builder I had insisted on the code for steps. This bothered me because we’re not a one-size-size-fi­ts-all people. What if code sizes don’t work for your personal safety … whether it’s age or body type?

Yes, I understand needs for families, but as an older woman, those rules don’t fi­t me. I need my home set up for my safety, yet all I kept hearing was about selling the house in the future. Hello, I’m living here now. I didn’t buy this house to turn around and sell it. I spent a lot of money making this house fi­t my needs. If, when I’m gone, the next owners need to make changes for their lifestyle, then they can do that.

A couple years ago, I had my back steps and steps to the garage rebuilt to suit movability with a shorter rise and wider tread. What a difference that made! I can easily go up and down these steps and the railings on both sides are sturdy for when I need the extra support. Making my living space work for me gives me peace of mind along with safety. 

On Being Old 7 A Conversation with my Brother

The importance of talking with family continues … 

My brother and I didn’t get along well as kids. I suppose, being siblings, we both thought the other got the more attention – or whatever. However, since we’re much older, we’ve occasionally touched on a topic from our past and life in general.

I am always amazed when he mentions something about our childhood I never knew or realized. And, of course, I say things he never thought about. We agree it’s almost like we grew up in different households. He was certainly treated differently than I. Mum used to tell me he was jealous of me because I was smarter. I used to be envious of him because I felt all the other members of the family treated him better and gave him more things than I ever got.

This is another example telling me how important it is to talk. We saw things differently as kids. We never could have discussed these topics back then without fighting. But now that we have a lifetime of living and experience, we can look back with a more open heart and mind. We need to be able to talk freely; with that, comes a better understanding, and, perhaps, healing from past hurts.

He made a comment about regrets and my mind immediately went to Frank Sinatra’s line, “Regrets, I made a few, but then again, too few to mention …” A few, ha-ha? I try not to have regrets or guilt, but too, working through them helps us grow. The trick is to not let them bring us down, which is one reason to talk about them.

My brother’s biggest regret is his inability to read well. Although he quit school at 16, he still made a good life for himself. He’s always worked hard, had his own landscaping business for years and made a decent wage. It’s sad to hear he’s harbored the regrets of not succeeding in school. He wondered why Dad and Mum didn’t push us harder to succeed. (My reply was that they didn’t know how or even understand why that was important. It was the time and area we grew up in, not that they were bad parents.)

Dyslexia wasn’t a known diagnosis when we were kids. Not being able to read well put you into the lesser classes … not being able to read was seen more like being stupid or too lazy to try. This was a time when any inability at learning subjected you to … not so good times in school. (And when we were kids, terms like “retard” were often used. Oh, how cruel kids could be.)

How brave my brother is to admit these things now. I admire him for having the courage for talking about how it. And, how sad, that in his later years, it still bothers him. It takes courage to talk about believed failings, to admit feelings, to discuss things before it’s too late. It’s not about, “You did this to me when we were kids.” It’s not about finding fault or bringing up past hurts. It’s about coming to terms with one’s own life and gaining better understanding in humanity. These things can stew inside you your entire life.

What does this have to do with being old? Years ago, we couldn’t have had these kinds of conversations. As kids, there was always a sibling rivalry; always that feeling that Mum liked me better and Dad liked him better. (I can hear the Smothers Brothers saying, “Mom liked you better.”) Now we have the wisdom of lives well-lived (which doesn’t necessarily mean easy).

Why haven’t we talked more? Is there fear of the old terms and hurt feelings resurfacing? Is it fear of admitting guilt about some things? Being embarrassed by feelings of failure? Being afraid to be ridiculed … again? Is it because we were taught you didn’t talk about these things?

It’s important to talk. I think about the conversations I wish I could have now with my Mum, Dad and other relatives. I wish I’d known to ask these things years ago; how to ask them. If I had, would they have answered or brushed me off?

There are questions brewing which I’ll never have answers for. I wish they talked more about issues bottled up inside. Perhaps those conversations could have led to earlier understandings of life and family dynamics.

There’s a need for our own stories to come out and be told. The stories help show what we’ve gone through and overcome. They also help others who also struggle to know they are not alone. We shouldn’t be afraid to share those stories. We are who we are. We’ve come a long way. Let’s celebrate that!

  

On Being Old 6 The importance of telling your story

My Mum and I had an awesome relationship. I always felt we could talk about almost anything … and we did … almost …

I often think about her realizing there were conversations we never had and should have. I never remember her talking much about sadness, grief or being in pain. I don’t know if I ever heard her talk about feeling lonely. Is it because, back then, people didn’t talk openly about their issues? Is it because I just don’t remember? Or is it because, at a younger age, I didn’t want to listen?

I remember my brother telling me after she passed that she’d sometimes keep him home from school because she was depressed, crying and didn’t want to be alone. I was shocked. I had no idea she was ever unhappy back then. (It would have been in the ‘60s.) Why wasn’t it me she kept with her? I was the older, the daughter.

Now that I am old and am thinking back, I don’t remember her talking about being in pain (except for the couple times when she’d had to have an operation.) When she got older, her only gripes were with breathing (she’d been a heavy smoker and had COPD) and having either constipation or diarrhea.

When she turned 70, she stopped driving. Not because she couldn’t (that I know of) but because she just didn’t want to. Then, as the years went on, she even stopped wanting to go anywhere at all. Eventually, she wouldn’t even go outside. (And she used to be an avid flower gardener.) I came to believe she was afraid that when she left the house, it’d be the last time.

I think back on all the things I wish we’d talked about. I want to know if her legs ached like mine do today. Did she feel lonely when no one was around? Did she get depressed? Did she feel like giving up? It seemed she stopped caring about all the things she used to love. Did she just get tired of living? Did she no longer feel useful?

Me, I feel I’m whining all the time. Although, in my mind, it’s not only just whining, but also about sharing story. Did my mum go through all this and just bottled it all up inside? Would she be looking down on me now saying, “I told you so.” And yes, I do remember her telling me, “You wait until you’re this age.” Now, I reply, “I hear you, Mum.”

I wonder how things would have been if we shared more of these types of stories. I wonder, if knowing what she experienced, would that help me better cope with my own aging?

One thing I come to believe more and more every day is that sharing life story is important. Listening to one another can be very beneficial in handling life’s ups and down, the celebrations and the sad times.