The Intersectional World of Grief and Depression

When I started to blog three and a half years ago, I wanted a forum for articulating grief outside the typical social media format and away from the appearance of pandering for sympathetic responses. I wanted to talk about the reality of what grief is like for me, to not create a façade or portray grief as overly gracious in any way. In some ways, I think I have allowed the blog to be a place where I can express an authentic viewpoint. In other ways I have failed to really own what the experience has been like, for fear of judgment or sympathy.

Vulnerability can be a struggle for me, and grief has brought out some of the worst, inauthentic pieces in me when it comes to owning up to said vulnerability. Especially when it comes to depression.

One of the things I clung to in the days after Chris died was running. It was something we shared and it has always been a way for me to process what I am thinking and feeling. Running is a safe space for me—metaphorically I have been trying to run ahead of my grief, away from the depression and confusion.

I’ve been clawing at ways to rebuild my life since January 7^th, 2014. Literally and figuratively running towards goals that I have hoped would lead me toward healing. But the depression remains, and sometimes compounds. It’s lonely, having a dug a hole, not realizing I have just been running in place, wearing out the ground underneath me.

What is challenging is that the depression is a complicated matter. It’s not just one hole really, it’s a series of wormholes that are interconnected and entangled with loss.

For me, a starting point in the “self-imposed pity party” is comparison. Between my expectations and my reality, as well as benchmarking myself against the world. As Brene Brown wisely states: “Comparison kills creativity and joy.” That absence of joy and creativity feel like depression.

Intellectually, I am acutely aware that I am not alone in feeling like my life is far from what I hoped it could be. Which is why I think it’s important to own this less than perfect part of my life. Sometimes living in a world of Instagram-filtered reality and epic Facebook updates leaves me feeling like a failure. Comparing other people’s best moments to my everyday reality creates a mental world where I am living less of a life.

In many ways reality matches what my depressed thinking says—I am living less of a life. Where most 30 somethings I know are starting or growing families and/or establishing themselves in careers, I’ve been licking my wounds. Not only am I grieving the loss of Chris, I am grieving the loss of the family we will never have. I have lost out on the opportunity to have a family of my own—and quite possibly will never find another spouse. And that is a painful reality I have to face.

I‘ve also struggled to adequately invest time in new friendships because grief has taken up more energy that my introverted self has time to spare. The expense of grief has meant losing pieces of myself that feel fun and worthwhile to be around in the first place. I am self aware enough to know I am difficult to understand, and that often my liabilities precede my assets in friendships. I can come across as cold, or condescending without intending to do so. Trying to find that goofy, carefree part of myself that feels likable in the first place has been a self-imposed hurdle. Instead of cultivating community, I’ve been isolating to heal. Now that I am starting to move outside my protective shell, it’s a pretty lonely place and I am responsible for that loneliness.

As much as I take joy in seeing my friends thrive in life, it can be hard to be the one left behind. Even among the amazing women I have walked this widow journey with, I am behind in my healing. I know that trying to circumnavigate my depression has played a role in falling behind. I also know that life is far from fair, what I want out of life doesn’t really matter. These are the cards I have been dealt and my only choice is to play them as best I can.

I’ve tried reading books to gain insight and self-awareness, to challenge my attitude and growth process. Books like Rising Strong, Wild, and The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, have been meaningful in encouraging me to live a more authentic, value centered life. Other books have not meshed well with my sense of perfectionism—reading a book on mindfulness left me feeling like a raging failure for not being able to lay aside the anxious and depressive voices. The irony is not lost on me. Where Chris used to temper my perfectionism, I have tried to find ways to tell myself “enough is enough” in this grieving process. When I am not able to calm that voice, depression rears it’s ugly head.

Beyond the scope of my self-indulgent sorrows, I am torn apart by all the hatred, injustice, and violence I see in our world. The last year, in particular, has brought out a strong sense of powerlessness in me. I know I am not alone in this feeling either. I desperately wish to put good things into this world, like so many other people I know. Through depression’s filter, it feels like those efforts matter very little. Like salmon losing the fight to a much stronger current. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as I question what exactly people are losing their lives over. What are we even fighting for? What gives us the right to hurt each other?

I’ve tried my best to not place responsibility on others for managing my depression or grief. I imagine my distance or silence at times have not been constructive. There are times where I just don’t know what to say or do, and I know no one else can change that for me. I once had a counselor (years ago) challenge me on pushing others away. It’s what I do to keep things safe. Like many others who deal with depression, I often isolate to not be a burden on others. (Even though I would challenge clients on using this technique.) I am deeply ashamed of my depression because it makes me less than perfect. And I fear that less than perfect makes me less than worthwhile. By owning this vulnerability, I hope that others can relate (not pity) and feel less lonely through their struggles.

None of us has it easy. Right now my “not easy” feels very lonely and sad. It’s a place where I really miss having a teammate. I feel very fortunate for the few years that Chris and I had together. I used to think that marrying such a funny, intelligent, kind person meant that maybe I wasn’t so terrible either. In the least year, I have questioned how true that story is. I feel selfish and silly for being depressed at all. And I also feel like a delusional failure for not getting this grieving thing right (even when I know there is not a right way). Depression is fundamentally a place that doubts all good.

One of the hardest things that I have learned about grief has come from understanding depression. It’s not about just one emotion, it’s about being so overwhelmed by emotion that your system is functionally depressed by the intensity of those feelings. As much as grief is an echo of loving and missing someone truly special, the sad, angry, lonely pieces of me turn grief into depression. My depressed self is insecure and constantly doubts who I am or how I’m doing. It’s not a version of myself that I think Chris would be proud of, and that is difficult to digest.

The silver lining is that depression doesn’t stop me.  I think that is an important distinction. I’ve been able to hide behind school, work, home improvement projects, and running as ways of distracting myself. Sometimes those distractions are necessary—the grief and sadness will subside in due course. I still shower, and take Schrodie for walks. I clean my house, and organize things. I feel purposeful in the work I do. I am trying to be better about making social plans.

I’m trying to build a future for myself, and working on having patience with the process. Patience is not my strength. Not moving quickly enough, both on a race course and in life, contribute to feeling depressed. I think part of me hoped that I would somehow have a qualifying time when it came to grieving—that’s just not the case.

Again, my hope with this post is create a conversation around reality—to own how perfectionism hinders my life and how I’ve been holding myself back in the process. I can only imagine the extent to which I am not alone in this battle. Maybe owning up to it helps someone else feel a little less lonely too.