The manner in which I process the world is firstly internal. Something happens, whether good or bad, and I send it through a thirty-organ process before I am able to physically respond. Often, I don’t even realize my body is computing an emotional response until it blurts out in word vomit on someone else’s shocked face or I’m caught in an inexplicable bout of darkness with nubby fingers and bitten nails stuck in my teeth.
I always tended to be a perfectionist. If I am to invest in something, I want to invest heavily. I want to be proud of the end accomplishment. If I am fortunate enough to receive positive feedback, I put even more pressure on myself to keep up appearances.
I remember my son noticing his fingers for the first time. It was fantastic. Lying with his back on the living room carpet, his nubby fingers twirled in front of his eyes like a VeggieTales baby carrot dance number. As he hunts down every inch of his tubby self, there is at least one feature he has not yet found.
Uncleaned tools and sprawled 2x4s taunt me in my basement, and a sense of defeat weighs upon my soul. But if there is anything good about having a blog geared toward men with mental illness, it is that the maintaining of Dadding Depressed offers the opportunity to reflect on situations and explore how they might relate to the everyday struggle of the mentally ill.
My experience is that when I am in a rut of depression or anxiety, I sleep less, but I want to stay in bed more. I cannot find the peace needed for slumber nor the motivation needed to get out of bed, so I whirl awake in the solace of my room.
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Hurricanes Harvey and Irma threatened entire communities; children of undocumented immigrants are newly afraid of deportation to a land they don’t remember; and a seventeen-year-old boy from church tragically died after years of praying the cancer would leave his body. Even today marks 16 years since the tragic happenings of September 11, 2001 where nearly 3,000 people were killed.