Checkmate, Dennis Bell of Torquay

[digitalraven]

TL;DR: Depression is a bastard.

My brain chemistry is telling me I need to apologise to people for things I did five or more years ago, things that they may not remember, tiny and inconsequential. Not the big things. I felt the need to apologise to Jane not for the stuff that lead up to the breakup, but for an off-handed comment made in about 2008. Not even a negative comment, but one in which I wasn’t supportive enough.

This time, taken from the context of that comment, a context that I won’t share, I’m back to what is almost my “normal” expression of depression. That I’m a child who was told one day “you are a grown-up now, you have to be more mature”, without any chance to work out a transition. That so much of my life outside of work—of what I like to do rather than what I have to do—is centred on childish bullshit, on video games and lego and animated robots.

When I was a kid, the thing guaranteed to get me throwing punches—apart from “being my brother”—was to accuse me of being a baby about something. The implication (or outright statement) that I was a selfish brat, too immature to think of other people, one small step away from throwing a tantrum because I didn’t get my own way.

Now, it’s much the same thing but with a broader span that insults me. The accusation of immaturity hurts like hell, and it’s magnified when it’s my own brain chemistry throwing it at me. It tells me I should have life goals, that I should spend time working towards them. It tells me that I should grow up and start gardening (because that’s the only real hobby my parents have) instead of wasting my time with things that don’t matter; things that don’t have any lasting impact. It demonstrates the divide between knowledge and belief: I know it is wrong, but right now I don’t believe that it is.

I’ll get over it. I always do. I am one high-functioning motherfucker. But it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with in the meantime.

Comments

[beachglass]

I think being grown up is doing things on your own. no safety net included.
at least, that's what it's been for me.
I can still enjoy weird, obscure hobbies. and alienate myself. I just know, every day, that no one is going to hold my hand as I trudge through this journey called life.

A thought

[original_aj]

Way back in the Eighties when I first came to Edinburgh there was a games shop at Greyfriars which had a sign on the wall which read "You don't stop playing when you get old, you get old when you stop playing."

My view is that I'll be grown up and responsible (and self sacrificial, sensible, all that stuff) when it matters, but what I do the rest of the time is what recharges my batteries so I can be grown up when it matters.

Unless you are in a position where you need to spend every available moment fulfilling basic needs (food, shelter, etc.) then whatever else you do is, fundamentally, playing. And that is also fulfilling needs, and what enables you to be at a higher level on Maslow's Hierarchy of needs and therefore more content.

One of the ways in which society is slowly getting better in the west is the reduction in pressure to conform in terms of what are acceptable hobbies. For those of us who were born earlier, there is a legacy of the ingrained attitudes we grew up surrounded by but I do see growing acceptance with each generation.

In short - "When I grew up I put away childish things" - like letting other people decide what made me happy.

I know it's tough, but it sounds like you have the tools to fight it.

Good luck.