The Black Cloak II

Yesterday was one year since I wrote this post.  For those who can’t be bothered clicking on the link, I’ve cut and pasted it here.  It’s called:

The Black Cloak

“Winston Churchill was definitely onto something by referring to his depression as the black dog.  For me, a “black cloak” is probably more befitting.  It’s definitely black, this heavy cloak that I wear.  When I’m wearing this cloak, nothing seems to be able to shift it.

My husband tries to remove it for me, but I pull it closer around me, as if to protect myself from feeling better.  Sometimes I feel comfortable in it.  Lost in it.  Almost as though I’m home.  Which is madness, right?  How could anybody feel comfortable feeling nothing…

And yet…”

It was one of my first posts on the Dilettante Diva Blog and as you can see it’s very short.  This was back before I started writing as much as I could, and including an image.

Clearly I wrote this ‘in the moment’.  You can feel it when you read it.  I wasn’t in a very good place when I wrote that post.  It’s so bleak and heavy and suffocating.  But that’s exactly how I feel when I’m having these moments.  When I’m wearing this black cloack.  It hangs around me like the proverbial albatross around my neck, and it takes days (sometimes) to shift it.  Often it will come on from something I’ve seen on television.  For the regular readers, you’ll remember my post about crying my contacts out whilst watching Love My Way.  That episode drove me down to the depths of my soul and I wallowed around there for almost a week.  I came up for air, and haven’t been able to watch another episode of Love My Way ever since.  Let’s call it self-preservation and leave it at that.

Apart from the Love My Way episode, I haven’t really worn the black cloak often lately.  There was a time, back in my 20’s when I regularly shrugged on the cloak and didn’t remove it for weeks.  I dropped weight.  A lot of weight.  Despite the fact that I was eating my normal amounts.  Rumours were going around my work that I was bulimic.  Somebody even told people she smelt vomit in the toilet after I’d been there.  None of it was true.  The truth was I was in a depressive funk, but when people don’t want to look very closely, they’ll see whatever they want to see.

But I’m better now.  I surround myself with positive people who love and care for me.   These are the kind of people who ask how you are, and actually wait for the answer.  The following people have been culled from my life (or contact has been severely limited): the whingers, the fatalists, the narcissists and the victims.  All gone!  And it’s cathartic.

I understand now that I am prone to depression.  I understand that there are steps I can take to try and avoid it.  But I also understand that sometimes “the only way out is through”.

I'm not alone here, I know I'm not.  So for anybody who's interested, next week is Mental Health Week (7-13 October).  There are some events happening around Queensland and you can find a list of events on the Mental Health Week website. 

Stay happy everyone.  And when you're not happy, know that it will pass.

xx

Image credit: Poofy / 123RF Stock Photo

Hanging up my sneakers...

My body is betraying me.  It seems as though it’s falling to pieces, but I know I’m exaggerating.  Let me start at the beginning.

My relationship with running began approximately 12 years ago.  I was diagnosed with depression and given the news that I’m prone to it, so I would need to learn ways to cope with and deal with any episodes.  My psychologist recommended running, and cutting back on drinking.

After fighting her on the cutting back on drinking thing (the mere thought of doing that sent me spiralling into a black hole), I acquiesced and finally did it.  I cut back, and now that I’m older and out of the drinking crowd (and industry) I used to be in, I don’t miss it.  The running definitely helped and over the past 12 years it has never ceased to make me feel better.

I have never been a true runner.  I’m not a natural runner, so it’s always been a slog for me.  Something I’m constantly working on, and motivating myself to do.  It’s easy to get motivated when I’m staring down the barrel of another black dog period in my life.  Nothing gets me running faster than feeling hollow and wanting it all to be over.  Self-preservation kicks in and I force myself out the door and get running.

But something’s happened to my body along the way.  It would appear my neck and back just aren’t what they used to be and they take longer to recover from sleeping in the wrong position, picking up heavy things (read: Little Warrior and sometimes the Polynesian Princess), and running in shoes with no cushioning (I know.  Idiot).

Last year I had signed up to run in the Mother’s Day Fun Run and conveniently put my back out three days before the race.  I was told I would never run again, and I cried.  I found the mere notion of it very upsetting and I was determined to prove them wrong.  So I took it easy for the last year.  I started going for walks in the morning.  At first I hated it – didn’t think I was getting any benefit out of it, but I noticed that my moods were similar as if I had done a run.  I came back refreshed, happy and ready for the day.

Four weeks ago I decided to start running again.  The Architect says that this occurs each year when the Bridge to Brisbane rolls around and he could be right.  I tend to get fired up when there’s an event coming.  I see it as an excuse to get back into it again.  As if this one event will be the catalyst for making a lifestyle change.  It’s probably worth mentioning also that I am influenced by others.  So if others are talking about their running training, I tend to want to get back into it.

So I started again.  And for the past four weeks I have been plagued by neck, back and knee pain.  Mere coincidence?  I think not.  I know I’m not that old, but I’m getting tired of the hassle.  I'm also old enough to know that I need to listen to my body.

Whilst I enjoy running and the benefits, I now find myself leaning towards a walk around our neighbourhood or a bushwalk with friends.  It doesn’t help that I haven’t been able to fully look over my right shoulder for approximately four weeks.  Perhaps the ol’ fire and desire to run will come back.  But for now my relationship with running is on a break.

And it looks like they were right.  I probably won't run again.  But this time I'm not sad about it.

Have you had to listen to your body recently and give up a sport? 

A letter to my sixteen-year-old-self

Dear Leanne,

First of all, I have to tell you: don’t worry about your weight.  All those moments of hating yourself because you think your thighs/bum/whatever is fat, are wasted moments.  I can tell you that this is not something you’re worrying about now.  Don’t waste your time fretting or comparing, you’re perfect and just enjoy it.  Oh, and those desperate sit-ups before you go to bed aren’t doing anything.  You’re not fooling anyone, least of all your stomach so stop doing it. 

Secondly, get rid of him. You know who I’m talking about.  He’s not right for you.  You know it, Mum knows it, hell I think even Ryan knows it and he’s only seven!  He’ll move on very quickly, trust me.  And yes, you’ll be broken-hearted and probably cry for weeks and weeks, but you’ll get over it and move on, and eventually be happier.  Spend more time with the girls and just enjoy being a teenager.

And still on the subject of boys: stay away from that butcher.  I repeat: Stay. Away. From. The Butcher.  He is no good.  You might think he’s cute, cause of his black hair and blue eyes (you have a thing for this combo as you get older), I can’t stress it any further.  And for God’s sake don’t move in with him.  If this is the only message you take away from this.  Please Leanne, I’m begging you.  Stay away….

Instead of doing Hospitality Management at university (which, can I tell you, you don’t finish), you need to do Communications.  Marketing, PR, anything along those lines.  You enjoy writing and believe it or not, you forget this as you get older and you stop writing for about 25 years.  Keep a folio of your work and don’t throw this away.

Learn to say no.  And more importantly learn how to say no.  You can’t please everybody and saying ‘yes’ to everybody only makes you miserable.  People will get over it.  Some people may not even notice!  You will feel empowered when you learn that you are actually in charge of your own destiny.

Get into running and riding.  You do eventually, but it would probably do you a service if you started now.  What you sometimes go through isn’t always PMS.  You will be diagnosed with depression in your 20’s.  Running helps.  Exercise of any description helps, but running is the best for you.  You’re not going mad.  The way you feel has a name.  Also, you can probably ease off on the Evening Primrose Oil because it ain’t doin’ jackshit ;)

When you’re about 26, you’ll receive an email from a guy.  An Architect.  He’ll ask you out for dinner.  Say yes.  Say yes, and hold onto him with both hands.  You won’t regret it.  This one is the one.  This one is the one Mum always told you about.  When she’d be cradling you in her arms after your most recent break-up, and she’d soothe you with words like “there’s someone out there for you Leanney, someone special, someone who will love you with everything they’ve got.  When it happens, you’ll know, you’ll just know”.  You don’t believe her when she tells you this, but it’s true.

I don’t know what else to tell you Leanne.  Start acting on your own instincts, especially when it comes to your relationships.  Learn how to say no.  Stick with the writing.  Stay strong, stay positive and have faith in your own inner voice.

I love you.  I don’t tell you often enough, but I do.

Ugliness within

I’ve got a lot of friends.  I make friends relatively easily and I love being around people.  Yet more and more, I find myself disliking myself and feeling truly ugly underneath.  This isn’t something that I want anymore.  I want to make a conscious decision to put it out with yesterday’s garbage.

All of my friends can’t be wrong, right?  There must be something nice about me, otherwise I’d have no friends to speak of.  So why do I constantly try to be someone else?  I’ve always wanted to be the best version of me I could possibly be, and sometimes, when the ugliness shows through, I truly dislike myself and wish I could be a “better person”.

Talking to my sister-in-law today (who, as it happens, is somebody I try to emulate for her patience and reasonableness) and she reasoned that everybody feels the same way.  That SHE feels the same way.  And it stumped me.

I guess it never occurred to me that other people would feel ugly too…

The Black Cloak

Winston Churchill was definitely onto something by referring to his depression as the black dog.  For me, a “black cloak” is probably more befitting.  It’s definitely black, this heavy cloak that I wear.  When I’m wearing this cloak, nothing seems to be able to shift it.

My husband tries to remove it for me, but I pull it closer around me, as if to protect myself from feeling better.  Sometimes I feel comfortable in it.  Lost in it.  Almost as though I’m home.  Which is madness, right?  How could anybody feel comfortable feeling nothing…

And yet…