As I was saying before I was interrupted... I think my years of mental instability have lead me to cope in a way that I can only describe as "powering down" This makes it appear that I am chill, and for all intents and purposes, I am CHILL….. because I no longer exist in reality. My mind takes a vacation. It is escapism. I suffer from escapism.
I am a MASTER escapist. I have my PHD in Good Bye.
When I was young my parents were often told "She is always off in the clouds somewhere" It’s how I coped with life. My sensitivities were continuously being chaffed raw. Life always seemed to hurt. Something always seemed to make me ponder the "Why?" of life. The pondering always led me down somewhat darkly negative paths. I remember feelings of melancholy ever since I was 5.
5 year olds have SO much to be depressed about. I wish there was a sarcasm font.
I remember being at the pool. And I saw a boy with no arms. It looked like he was born without them. I laid in the water for 3 hours, listless. My family splashed around me, playing, laughing, trying to engage me. I just laid there floating, weightless, and feeling heaviness all at the same time. Drowning with the sorrow that I felt the boy must be suffering from. I mean, he had to have his dad carry him through water, because he couldn’t balance himself while walking, let alone swim. People stared at him. What was life like to be like him? He looked happy, he laughed. But I felt sad. I remember anguishing about it for days. I am sure he was better adjusted to his disability than I was, and I had never even met him... I just observed him for an afternoon trying to figure out "WHY?" and "WHY NOT ME?" Why was he born without arms, and I was born with arms? It wasn't FAIR for him. It ravaged my sensitivities, and the image of him being carried around, to this day, still sets my mood dial on sad.
So that is one of my earliest memories of feelings of depression. Stuff happened in my childhood that probably had a large effect on my emotional state (said STUFF is a drama that can’t really be re-enacted because it involves others besides me, and I will withhold it for the sake of the other players involved). But I truly believe I was born with an extra coating of sensitivity. It is a sticky shellac that ends up attracting more flaws than your standard satin finish. The typical breeze of dusty hurts that normally settle on most people, can be wiped off... Those same dust particles of hurt stick to me and eventually became part of the marred veneer.
So how does one who was born sensitive AND born into a dusty whirlwind, cope? They retreat inside themselves. I have a vivid imagination. When I was young I lived much of my day in alternate realities. I spent hours day dreaming. One friend, in adulthood, shared her first impressions of me as a youth. She said I had a spaced out, drugged expression. My eyes were always glazed over. I never looked present. Because I wasn’t.
I remember being in confrontations or long drawn out lectures. I could nod along, keep my eyes alert and yet be in another reality. I would have no IDEA what the person was saying to me, but even then I became adept at returning non-committal responses to make it appear that I was following along. It’s almost like I could split my brain in two. One part was operating my outward functions; the other part(the one in charge of my sanity) had kidnapped my consciousness and held it ransom.
As a preteen and teenager I was SO boy crazy. I had numerous crushes, but even though I was so hungry for love, I had such a good fantasy world I never really felt the urge to pursue a real life romance. At the time I felt I was a huge sucker for unrequited love… Why did no boy ever notice me? (It could have been that my awkward phase lasted from 8-17)(it could have also been that I never once talked to a boy I liked) But despite the distress I felt in not having boyfriends, I felt somewhat satisfied in my romantic fantasy life. Now, I actually feel somewhat grateful that because of that pseudo satisfaction, I never actively pursued boys, and therefore never got into any trouble.
Sometimes I remember my fantasies from the past better than I remember the past. Or, I should say, I remember feeling the safety of the fantasies better than the feelings I experienced due to real life. My real life was numb. My fantasies were so alive.
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