size of the world

Depression is hard to write about.

so high, can't get over it

Not much of a blog post, but there it is.  

I’ve spent the better part of the last 4 months writing and rewriting the basic substance of that sentiment.  This winter sucked in more ways than one.  The world got smaller and smaller as we piled up a record-breaking 8-plus feet of snow here in Boston.  Walkways and sidewalks dwindled from several feet wide to just slightly wider than an average snow-boot, as the snow incessantly fell and the sky’s perpetual charcoal grey blotted out the sun.  My inner world, too, shrank significantly with each storm and what felt like an ever-present gloom I could not shake.  The proverbial chicken and egg story of the shittiest winter ever.

But the snow melted faster than it amassed and the depression waxes and wanes.   And every time the depression ebbs, I don’t actually feel like writing about the depression that has kept me from writing.    

The thing is, it’s basically absurd.  I have written this next part over and over and it just all sounds so pathetic and whiny and nonsensical that I want to continue not writing about it.  Essentially, things are going very well AND I am depressed.  I’m not sure how that happened.  But trust me, it did.  Work has never been better.  My family is fantastic.  Emily and I are great.  Joita and Nina bless me daily with their love and resilience and honesty, basic goodness and wisdom.  Hockey is awesome.  Cleo continues to be extraordinary.   Aaannnnnd…  I am depressed.  I so want all of it to make sense.  To be one way or the other.  I want the world to be black or white, right or wrong, good or bad, happy or sad.  But it isn’t.  And so, to say it again and to sum it up, things are great and I am depressed.

A cherished friend’s child moved across the world.  Other friends have taken in a friend of theirs who has stage 4 cancer.  My best friend’s dad died and her son’s anxiety is having catastrophic effects on his health and their family.  Two dear friends are watching as beloved parents slip slowly away; the longest, hardest goodbyes.  I have absolutely no business being depressed.  But I am.  I know that I shouldn’t look at it that way, comparing who deserves what emotions is asinine, but that’s the way it feels to me.  Peter, who is homeless, jobless, penniless, called me during the course of the winter.  He was paid some nominal amount of money to shovel snow off roofs in the city (a job Peter claims was offered to homeless people because they are expendable(sic)).  At any rate, Peter was calling me because he had 20 dollars and he wanted to take me out to lunch.  {pause to consider that}  And I’m whining because I’m not feeling perky enough?!?!  

I’m not writing because I’m depressed.  I’m not making time to connect with friends because I am depressed.  I’m not making soap because I am depressed.  I’m not taking photos because I’m depressed.  And so on.  I’m not miserable.  I’m just depressed.  I’m not even particularly sad.  I’m simply depressed. De-pressed.  If I were a ball I’d be deflated by about 30% (which apparently is average in New England – football humor).  One interesting thing is, I don’t seem to care.   I’m not even complaining that I’m depressed.  I’m simply stating a fact.   And so why am I even writing about it? 

I am learning that depression is a slippery slope.  When I consider depression, the image that comes to mind is someone huddled in a fetal position, head in hands, crouched in a dark corner of a gray empty room.   The person who cannot stop crying, or can’t get out of bed.  But I am none of those.  It’s bizarre.  But depression, like the fucking mountains of snow this winter (did I mention that we had 8 fucking feet of it?), shrinks your world exponentially.  And that is why I’m writing about it.  Because my world was getting too small even for me.


I have, of course, seen my doctor.  I have also seen a psychiatrist.  I have railed against medication of any kind for most of my life, rarely even taking an aspirin.  And that is mainly because of the addiction that is so prevalent in my family of origin.  But that has changed in the last several years.  I have come to accept that taking a Tylenol for a headache is not going to lead to a life of addiction and debasement.  So, I’m on a new medication for my depression slash anxiety.  I am definitely less anxious.  The medicine has discernibly turned down the volume on the committee.  And thank goodness for that.  I’m also sleeping better.  AND… I am not completely exhausted all the time. 

The psychiatrist was quite helpful really.  She addressed my medication concerns in short order.  She also tried to help me with my need to have everything fall neatly into black or white.  She point out that, as an example, anxiety isn’t all bad.  In fact, she said, “Anxious people get shit done.”  That made me laugh.  She’s right of course.  I do get a lot of shit done.  And in the same way, depression is not completely bad.  Being depressed has allowed me to slow down, to be quieter, to not have to keep up a facade of glee or the incessant patter of chatter I’m so used to spewing.  In my depression I have not been quite so afraid to explore those things that make me sad: Being transgender at the top of that list.  

I’m sick to death of being transgender.  I want to feel whole and integrated and not jagged and disconnected.  I’m tired of being wrong in my own self.   And I’m whining again.  I’m sick of hearing myself whine about it.

And again, I want to delete all of that nonsense and write, “things with me are fine”.  Sigh. I did promise myself that before hitting “publish” on this post, I would call a medical practice that specializes in LGBT issues.  Which I have done.  So now I have an appointment to meet with and begin to change over to a new medical practitioner who understands trans folks.  I don’t know whether to sigh in relief or shit myself.

at least cleo enjoyed the snow

at least cleo enjoyed the snow

About halitentwo

i am. god is. we are. as soon as i write something about me i change, am different, evolving. i am trans. i am a parent. i am a partner. i am a human. i am attempting to live a well-lived life in the spaces in between, beyond definition, fluid, dynamic, omnifarious and always changing. hopefully growing.
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