I’ve been slowly realizing something. The realization is that I can’t continue to use the same techniques for coping with my depression and suicidal thoughts that I always have, now that they are constant. You see, for years I experienced ups and downs. My depression came in waves. When I was at my lowest I could expect that I would pull out of it soon. When I was suicidal I knew that it never lasted more than a few months at a time.
That pattern changed three years ago. My depression worsened, my anxiety skyrocketed. My life changed dramatically. Since then, I’ve had only a few brief breaks from my depression and suicidal thoughts. Depressed and suicidal is my new normal.
I’ve had to adapt to my worsened symptoms, lower level of functioning and the ways they have limited my life. At first, I did what I have always done when I feel my worst. I ate comfort food. I wore pyjamas. I took baths multiple times a day. I watched all my favourite movies, over and over again. The problem is, while I say “at first”, I have been mostly doing this for the past three years. My coping has been in keeping myself as comfortable as possible. This was how I adapted, the only way I knew how.
The instinct to keep myself comfortable is a good one. It has saved my life on many occasions. It has kept me from further self-harm, helped me feel safer when everything around me seems dark and uncertain. However, after three years these attempts to self-soothe and provide comfort have begun to look more like my own form of hospice care. Being suicidal, I’ve not believed I will live. When I don’t believe I will live, I don’t see any reason to not just make what remains of my life as comfortable as possible.
What if being suicidal doesn’t mean I’m going to die? What if I can come to terms with my worsened illnesses and find ways to adjust my lifestyle to accommodate my new needs? What if I can bring myself to believe that I can live in spite of all of it? Seeking comfort in a decadent dessert, favourite movie and cozy pair of pyjamas can be helpful in coping with intermittent illness, but it’s no way to live every single day of my life. What if the things I’ve been doing every day are holding me back?
In short, comfort isn’t a solution. Comfort can help me cope with momentary distress, but is not suitable as the main line of defence against my long-term illnesses. It has a part to play, but I can’t allow it to take the leading role in my life on an ongoing basis. Not if I want to believe my life is worth living.
The alternative to comfort is, of course, discomfort. Pushing. Wearing clothes that I feel uneasy in after three years of pyjamas. Maintaining a routine for my exposure therapy even on days when it is hardest. Waking up at the same time every day and forcing myself out of bed even when my whole being revolts against it. Exercising at home, since my agoraphobia and social anxiety have stolen my ability to do it elsewhere. Eating healthily instead of chasing momentary solace in foods that cripple my body in the long run. None of this is comfortable. It is gruelling, unsettling. More importantly though, this has the potential to actually help.
I’ve been treating my day to day life as if my death is inevitable. I’ve given therapy my absolute best, but I haven’t done the same with the way I live. Despite being sure I’m going to die my mind and body have refused to give up. Even when I wish they would. Perhaps then, I should start believing that it is not my death, but rather my life that is inevitable.
I’d love to tell you that the changes I’m making and the manner in which I’m adapting my thinking have had a major effect on my illnesses. I wish I could but I can’t. I remain just as depressed and anxious. Most disappointingly, I’m still suicidal. In a way, that makes me all the more proud of myself. Proud that I am making changes in spite of feeling horrible. Proud that I’m not allowing myself to give in so easily. Pride in myself, as far as I can tell, is as good an argument as any to keep going.