When you’re in the middle of a white drug-like spell of anxiety or a weighty cloud of depression, it’s hard to see outside of your own world. Getting out of bed its a herculean effort. Answering emails takes at least a couple minutes of psyching yourself up. Depression and anxiety are very solitary experiences. You don’t have the energy or the words to talk about it, and it seems like a bummer to drag anyone else into it, anyway.
But there are people who still rely on you. Bosses. Coworkers. Your dog (who you consider a person…that’s not just me, right?). Friends. Significant others. Family. You have responsibilities, and there is only so much slack they can cut you while you try to climb out of the hole. They need things, too. And you’ve agreed via an actual signed contract, or just through social norms- to hold up your end of the deal. And that’s fair. And you so badly want to be there for them.
Knowing that you’re letting these people down is an extra weight in that cloud. It’s not their fault that you’re not keeping up, and as much as you want to you just can’t. There’s always that tickle in the back of your mind that time’s almost up. They’re going to give up on you. If only you could start back up and take care of all of those responsibilities. But that means you have to get up…and not only does that take physical energy, you can’t help but wonder what the point is, when there really isn’t a point in anything?
I just read that Lady Dynamite was cancelled because Maria Bamford’s Bipolar was necessitating too many breaks in shooting and an adjusted schedule that Netflix just couldn’t (wouldn’t) work around it.
Aside from being completely and totally livid that this wonderful show is in need of a home, this is also my worry. That as supported as I am, as hard as I try to keep up and maintain a sense of normalcy, that everyone from my bosses to my friends to my family will get tired of making accommodations, and will start to hear reasons as excuses. If it can happen to Maria Bamford, it can happen to any of us.
I don’t have a pithy ending to this one. I don’t even have any images to throw in. I’m just trying to keep up while I’m fighting my own brain, in a battle where the rest of my body seems to be collateral damage. I really just want to be myself again (for the first time?), and to do things. That tiny little corner of optimism in my brain just has to win. I think. I have a chance to have the kind of life that that optimism can picture.