High Functioning Depression - What it's Like to Have it

 

Video Transcript: I had a secret. I kept it under wraps for years because when I tried talking about it people thought I was being ungrateful.

My secret? I suffered from depression.

I still do, but I have had the good fortune of eventually stumbling upon people who also suffer or have suffered from it and understand what it's about, people who don't aggressively blame me for it, but don't let me wallow in despair either.

Before I go on, let me just say... If you suspect that you suffer from depression or some other form of mental, emotional, internal disturbance, DO NOT SELF-DIAGNOSE. Please seek help. Depression is not a joke and there is no one size fits all solution. I should know, I had a close family member who didn't make it. So I can't say it enough; seek help!

Also, please note, what I am about to say is based on my personal experience. I am not a mental health professional or your overbearing mother, and I am not qualified to define or analyze anyone else's circumstance. My objective here is to simply share what I personally went through in the hopes that it might prove relatable to someone.

So what does it feel like to have what I have?

At first, I seem to have shared very similar mental states (some of which still persist) with my clinically depressed acquaintances. There was that crushing feeling of sadness and hopelessness, and the distressing feeling of sitting in a black hole, alternating between numbness and overthinking the cobwebs I conjured out of nothing. I had very little belief and pride in myself and in what I did, and like my saturnine pals, there were sporadic attempts to be, let's just say, harmful...

But then something shifted ever so slightly, and I don't quite know how and why it did. Perhaps a combination of my unique chemical and mental make up and the demands of a changed environment made it possible, or maybe a huge purple villain from another dimension snapped, and instead of eliminating 50% of the population, his snap shifted brain cells.

Whatever the cause, I noticed, I had suddenly gotten up and began to drive myself over cliffs of excess.

I’d become so concerned about time or my perceived shortness of it that I start work at dawn to ensure I make the most out of my day, but even then I end up deeply dissatisfied with the day's work. When I'm not working, I either stuff my face senseless or I sleep --- a lot, one time clocking in a record 20 hours of sleep on one of my mandatory holidays. I sleep so much during my days off I'd likely pass off either as a cat or a piece of furniture. But despite all the seeming rest I get, I still end up perpetually exhausted.

But there is one other thing I do even more excessively than eating or sleeping --- reading.

In 2016, I read 61 books and listened to 24 audiobooks, a total of 85 books consumed in one year. This, combined with my two other favorite excesses, has resulted in extremely dark eye rings and a fairly even increase in my horizontal dimensions.

Yes, I really look like a sad panda right now.

Feeling like a panda. Thinking like Batman.

I’ve been told this seemingly frenetic mutation of my earlier condition is called high functioning depression, also known as, the Batman state of mind (just kidding) --- also known as, dysthymia or persistent depressive disorder (PDD).

Earlier in 2018, I went through another major shift. All of a sudden, something just lifted. There is still some feeling of heaviness, but I feel a lot lighter now, and I've done a lot more different things besides reading, eating and sleeping. By the end of 2018, I only managed to read 25 books, and looking back at 2016, I can't imagine how I finished so many.

Moms Don't Think

We used to tease my mother-in-law for her preferred mode of weekend entertainment. It consisted mostly of watching movies with little to no dialogue, but brimming over with blood, gore and broken limbs. She explained that she did not care to think in her moments of repose, which would have been the case if she were to watch fiction of the verbose sort.

While, in the interest of maintaining my digestive peace, I still question her choice of genre, I no longer wonder at her reason. I understand her now. After a week of slaving over soul-crushing cubicle work that is the demand of necessity rather than interest, and dealing, in a personal and professional capacity, with the mind-boggling angst and nonsense of a constant stream of bipeds in arrested emotional maturity, it is too much to require additional strenuous mental exercise on a rest day.

I understand her even better because I find myself in the same situation, stretched so thin by the demands of full time employment and parenthood that I refuse to use my brain a second over Friday's sunset, by which time I demand my inalienable right to nonsensical rest and recreation.

In my case, I find my comfort in my trove of books, but while my younger tastes leaned towards the likes of Poe, Kafka, Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky, I now find myself in need of much, much lighter fare, so utterly bereft of depth that I am ashamed to admit the crime of reading them, and am therefore constrained to hide the evidence in the bowels of a nondescript eBook reader.

But even then, the lack of spare brain cells to process even my dumbed down diversions requires me to reread sentences thrice before I comprehend their import, an affliction first manifested by my own mother, who, paradoxically, has a degree in English Literature. This has led me to the conclusion that mothers aren't, by nature, slow or uncomprehending. We're just tired!

(Thanks Rocky for sharing this. >:D)

Now the question is, shall this be the permanent prevailing state of affairs? To that I say, I refuse defeat. After two months with my eBook reader, I have been forcing my grey matter to gradually migrate, cell by cell, back to its usual haunts: Tolkien, Dickens, Eliot, Chekhov, Hemingway... God help me.

Comelec Tales: The Return of the Dead Voter

It’s almost election season again, a time for cripplingly long lines and tall tales. Sadly, while most of us will probably be forced to marinate in candidates’ assorted vats of lies, not all of us will be given the privilege to cast our votes for our preferred liar. “No bio no boto” stands.



I almost didn’t make it though, and it was partly my fault.

I do not do anything at the last minute. I am, moreover, so anal retentive that I quadruple check anything I’d already done, which is why it came as a surprise to me that I decided to depart from my usual insanity.

For some inexplicable reason, I trusted in the system. I registered years ago, and in my voter’s certification, they printed my signature, thumbprint and the face of the first functional zombie on earth.

I was therefore quite distressed to find my name among the list of voters without biometrics a week before the deadline for voters’ registration.  I suspected that it might have been my otherworldly beauty that may have led Comelec staff to doubt that I was human.

Regardless of the reason, I made up my mind to line up the following day to show my certificate of proof that I am a voter in possession of a face. This is despite the fact that, with very little time left to registrants, the lines would likely redefine despair, patience and fortitude all in one day.

By the way, can anyone remind me why do we do this? Why do we voluntarily subject ourselves to such a painful inconvenience when we always end up electing officials who torture us with inane or corrupt governance anyway?

I do not know why. I suppose Filipinos are simply eternally hopeful that eventually we’ll hit the mark. Unfortunately, the last time we did this, we mistook PNoy’s shiny pate as the bullseye and missed by a mile entirely.

So, armed with a dose of determination and a layer of hope imbibed from listening to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing on perpetual loop, I marched to the registration area the next day, only to discover that there were no separate sets of numbers for inquiries, new registrants and registered voters without biometrics. We all had the same queue and the last priority number had been given at 6 a.m.

Those of us who persisted in inquiring, gathered like lost sheep at the exit, united in our mutual cluelessness. With the seasoned tutelage of Manong Guard, our self-appointed shepherd who had hitherto been intent on making sure none of us went over his imaginary fence, we eventually devised a fishing game to reel in passing Comelec staff to gang up on (with the meekness of a gang of sheep of course). We appointed official bait who we threw at our prospects.

Two catches later and our group had grown considerably smaller, with most of the sheep marching home sheared… err, verified. My situation however, had gotten murky. Our first catch declared that my certificate was enough proof that I had the all clear to vote for my choice of clowns in next year’s cirque de gobierno. Our second catch however, said I had no biometrics despite the printed proof to the contrary.

Manong guard had a word of sage advice for us few remaining disconsolate sheep: We should line up at 2 a.m. the next day so we could be the first in line for priority numbers at 6 a.m.

I could almost hear Heneral Luna hollering his now immortal question in my ear, “Bayan o sarili?! (Country or self?!)”

Such a difficult question. Can I use a lifeline please?

The predominant feeling was disappointment, but I have, these past years, been decidedly dissuading myself from the immediate urge to complain about public service. First, because it isn’t always the public servants’ fault. In this case, we were given 18 months to sort ourselves out, but many chose to do so only at the last minute. Second, because not all government employees take one hour to finish their 15 minute breaks while queues simmer in high blood pressure. There may have been flaws in the local systems they chose to adopt, but the local Comelec staff clearly worked seriously and diligently.

With no solution in sight, I trudged home defeated, and in a twisted attempt to relieve my disappointment, I took to Twitter to bask in the despair of other voters. Fellow blogger, Vic ended up tagging Comelec’s James Jimenez in a tweet I made in reply to one of his. Naturally, I thought nothing of it. You simply do not expect people of consequence to take notice of little people (although technically speaking, years of stress eating has made me anything but little).

To my utter shock, Jimenez asked for the details of my problem and had Ms. L from his office call me long distance from Manila. I was astounded. It was as if I was in the middle of a bizarre late night telenovela where everything was so absurd that nothing made sense. Someone from up the top was personally trying to help me.

Succeeding referrals from Ms. L to Ms. M and Ms. H of their local offices finally revealed the reason behind the discrepancy in my records. Apparently, my file had been deactivated due to death. More importantly, it wasn’t my fault, Ms. H said. It was involuntary manslaughter on their part.

Get up. Time to vote.

My husband rejoiced at the news because it meant I never had to pay taxes again --- I was dead after all. To his dismay, I opted to rise from the dead with the help of Ms. H who had restored my biometrics.

And I lived happily ever after… I wish. I might still end up with a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, voting for loonies we’d end up suffering under for the next six years, again.

But really, the highlight of this story is Jimenez. This should teach me not to lose faith in our public servants. Hallelujah! There are still some good ones out there. Here’s hoping that next elections, we put more of them where they can help.

The Half of It

It happened one bright afternoon when vendors were setting up their stalls for the weekend flea market. She had expelled copious amounts of undigested matter, soft projectiles so formidable, they sent one stall owner and her kin running for the hills, leaving me with the unenviable task of demonstrating my inadequate cleaning skills in front of oddly delighted spectators.

It happened again in a posh upscale mall. This time it was the youngest who had deigned to enhance the tiles of beige and cream with his ecru-hued dinner. At least his color combination was impeccable. By this time, my cleaning prowess had elevated to ninja level; I had to wipe the mall restroom too when his digestive tract decided it had more to share to the world.

Halfway there

My mother assured me I hadn’t seen the half of it. I wondered what worse things I’d done as a child to make her say that. I have no recollection of having made her acquainted with the byproducts of failed digestion. But then, our adventures together may have been of a more extreme nature.

There was that time I slept at the car’s back seat and downed a lungful of carbon monoxide. Senseless and, according to her, looking possessed and grinning like the devil, I very nearly crossed over.

Then there was that unique swimming episode when I plunged into the mouth of a dead volcano that had been converted into a water reservoir, with my salvation in the hands of a man, who himself, did not know how to swim. I swear my mother’s agitated gesticulations during and after my Olympic worthy dive could have won her the championship at a hip hop dance contest. 

Multiply all my other escapades by six (my siblings) and you’ll arrive at the conclusion: No wonder my mom is one crazy tamale.

I strongly suspect though that I am fast approaching the point of “seeing the half of it” or at least reaching my mother’s level of insanity. I have, after all, carried an unconscious 25 lb asthmatic boy for three hours because the ER had no beds left, and I have held vigil and cleaned after a bloody food poisoned little girl. And yet, that really is just part of the half of it, because they’ll grow up and there’ll be more frightening things to look out for, like prom dates and abominable teen fashion.

This isn’t intended to scare. If anything, this is really an exhortation to be kind and forgiving of the people who’ve raised you. Ruling out some detestable exceptions, many parents do the best they can with their limited skills and understanding and despite their frustrated dreams. The best of us expect no other reward than the memories of little arms lovingly wrapped around our abdominal spare tires and soft grateful kisses on our raisin faces permanently wrinkled with worry.

Cheers to all parents past and present who have seen and survived the halfway mark.

Interstellar Mini Movie Review

I’ve been emotionally compromised. I couldn’t stop thinking about Interstellar days after I’d watched it, and I’ve had to rationalize my prolonged teary-eyed state as distress over more mundane concerns (paying my annual income tax, for example), when in reality, I wanted to weep for Cooper.

My husband got a copy of the movie because he liked it but felt he needed another go to fully absorb the story. His brains apparently fell off a cliff midway. That was fair warning that I needed to watch the film in an isolation chamber for comprehension purposes. That’s just what I’d expect from Christopher Nolan whose films are beautifully crafted marvels that require audiences to take anti-inflammatory medication.

If all you remember of high school physics is your teacher’s superb skills in making you cry, then the movie’s dialogue, liberally seasoned with discussions about singularities, wormholes, relativity, gravitational waves and time dilation will leave you feeling like a fart capsule exploded in your brain. The only way to connect with the story is to pare down some of its mind numbing concepts.

In Summary

The earth and the human race are about to go kaput. Cooper, a former pilot, is recruited by NASA’s professor Brand to take a ship with a group of scientists, including Brand’s daughter Amelia, into a wormhole to gather data from three possibly habitable planets orbiting a black hole. Brand reveals he is working on an equation that will allow them to launch space stations that’ll take humanity to a new home. In the event that this fails, Brand’s plan B is to use frozen embryos, which the scientists take with them, to jumpstart the human race.

Cooper leaves behind his broken hearted 10 year old daughter, Murph, but is determined to one day return. It is later revealed that Brand lied about there being a plan A, having secretly solved his equation and deemed plan A to be impossible. From the start Brand intended Cooper and company to execute plan B with no hope of ever returning.

After discovering that two of the planets are inhospitable and after a series of unfortunate events (i.e. after all the supporting cast have been killed off), Amelia and Cooper are the only ones left of their company. Low on fuel, Cooper detaches himself from their ship and launches into the black hole’s singularity while propelling Amelia and her embryos into the third planet. (Talk about becoming the mother of the human race! That is if she manages to survive her first ten toddlers.)

While in the black hole, Cooper finds himself in a five-dimensional area compressed into a three-dimensional space from where he transmits data to an adult Murph. She uses the data to solve the equation that will allow mankind to launch space stations, thereby saving it from extinction. Cooper exits the blackhole and is back where he started. He is later reunited with Murph, but because of time dilation, Cooper has hardly aged, while Murph is now elderly and dying.



The Bottom Line

You don’t need a PhD in constipated Hollywood plots to be able to relate to Interstellar. Nolan’s message is simple. Unfortunately, this is also where the story goes a little wishy washy. After all that convoluted mental acrobatics, all Nolan wants to say is: Love is that all mysterious force that binds us, draws us together across time and space and conquers all. In the end, Nolan takes us back to the inexplicable.

I don’t begrudge Nolan though, because he reminds us that we don’t always need rigid proof to experience something powerful, real, true and comprehensible. Matthew Mcconaughey portrays Cooper as your average Joe which makes it even easier for us to stand in his shoes. If you’ve ever loved another being with fierce depth, you will understand Cooper’s despair at parting and his anguish at later realizing that he has missed irreplaceable years in his child’s life.

For countless Filipinos the world over, Cooper’s experience should resonate on an even more personal level. We have, after all, our OFWs who, because of love, must part for prolonged periods of time from the people they care for.

So is Interstellar really just a touchy feely movie masquerading as an abstruse pop quiz in astrophysics? If the story strikes a chord with you, I don’t think you’ll bother analyzing what it is or is not.

Just for laughs, here's Interstellar's Honest Trailer .