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For the past four weeks, I was in a low-grade depression, up until this past Tuesday. I’m out on the other side now. Hallelujah. During that time, I did all the things that normally help shift my mood:
- Seeing friends
- Exercising (even if it’s 15 minutes)
- Eating healthy foods
- Treating myself to unhealthy foods
- Meditating
- Taking my medication
- Watching saccharine cute baby bunny videos
- Using my light box
- Using positive self-talk
- Regulating my sleep
- Listening to music
I even journaled! Which, for the record (the record I don’t have), I rarely do. I’m not a fan. I know others swear by it; I usually just swear.
Yet I still couldn’t shake this awful lethargy, the familiar disinterest in life, this shame and mean-heartedness towards myself. Even a session with my therapist Hard-Ass Andie, though helpful, didn’t budge it all that much. Until I had a second session with her.
As Andie and I talked, I mentioned there were two things that had been weighing a bit on my mind: My career is moving in a very different direction (very enjoyable, but very different), and my wuz-band and I (if you haven’t guessed we’re on good terms) have begun amicable formal divorce proceedings.
Over a FaceTime appointment, Andie said: “You’re in transition in two major areas of your life. That’s a lot.”
Pricks of tears bubbled. “Those are two pretty significant changes, aren’t they?” But before that conversation, I hadn’t given them any thought, because they were, well… just my life. Not sizeable transitions.
“It’s natural to grieve,” Andie said.
I’m grieving? No, it’s not that big a deal, I thought. But of course, it is. Slowly as we talked, under that malaise of depression, I felt sadness, and that sadness opening to relief.
I couldn’t see I was going through transitions. Andie reminded me that sometimes I have a tendency to forget about the big picture. When I’m in a vice grip of depression and anxiety, figuratively and literally, I get tunnel vision. I see only the blades of grass, not the whole yard.
One of the body’s physiological responses to stress can be tunnel vision so we focus solely on things related to our survival such as paths of escape. Our nervous system jumps to our aid to protect us even if we’re actually safe and it’s "only" a perceived threat.
I wasn’t broken or to blame or stupid because I couldn’t see what was going on. I wasn’t in any true danger, but my body didn’t know that. My flight and freeze response was my nervous system’s innate wisdom to keep me from harm.
What’s the Solution?
Zooming out. See the bigger picture to gain perspective. It may sound obvious, but it’s not easy. I now know to check in and take a tally of what’s happening in my life; identify changes and acknowledge their magnitude instead of minimizing them. I can do this alone, but not always.
Sometimes, talking things through is the way I need to zoom out. Chatting with a friend works, as does talking with Andie when I need more.
Andie offers me acknowledgment and validation. She knows me. I trust her. With this connection and trust, it’s safe enough to see the big picture and feel what’s underneath. As a result, I can soften and offer the kindness to myself that she’s offering me.
© Victoria Maxwell
