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Pasta is Love

...And Other Learned Truths

By Hadley FrancesPublished 5 years ago 8 min read
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I've been in the Grey Place for awhile now.

The Grey Place: a state of mind defined by hopelessness and a listless lack of motivation, accompanied by a deep and certain sense of failure.

The Grey Place is the little brother of depression. Not quite as deep a shade of darkness. A step away, is how I see it.

Yesterday, in the Grey Place, I texted about fifteen of my friends, families, young ones, not to young ones, all the ages, people I love. And told them I was dressing up, making pasta and lemon bars, and watching a movie. "Bring something to drink or eat".

The minute I sent those texts, I realized I might actually be able to clean out my car without melting into a puddle of hot salty tears. I also managed three loads of laundry, dishes, baked the lemon bars and made my bed!

If I have any advice for someone in sadness, it is: find your motivation, and do that, a lot more then you do now.

The Grey Place and I have been keeping company for a couple weeks now. People always ask "why?" The answer is "why has nothing to do with it."

I usually placate with answers such as "not getting enough hours at work is stressful for me" or "I have a doctors appointment coming up that worries me" and while these are never lies, they ARE truthful circumstances, they really don't have much sway over the comings and goings of the Grey Place.

Without an understanding of depression and how it works, this is a scary concept for some. The idea that at any moment you could be knocked off center by an unknown sadness and hopelessness can seem horrifying. It was for me, the first few times. Eventually though I adjusted, I learned, that for me and my situation, the more I fought against not feeling "happy" the deeper the hole got.

This is a common metaphor for depression... The idea that depression and or anxiety, is a hole in the ground. When you fall in, and begin desperately to climb your way out, all you are able to accomplish is pulling more dirt on top of yourself, effectively burying yourself deeper and exhausting your energy.

It's almost become a cliché story, because its incredibly accurate for so many struggling with mental illness.

Lately, I've been working really hard to not feel the need to defend my depression.

I think many people have their have views on weather or not depression is made up. I remember reading somewhere (if only I could remember what to site) about the societal attitude towards mental illness during the Edwardian Era. Women especially, were often committed to asylums because of it. The many causes sited, included "insanity by childbirth" or "Insanity caused by overwork." These days we call that "postpartum depression" and "it's time to take a holiday and maybe talk to a mental health professional about managing stress."

Some cases were labeled "moral insanity" which essentially meant you did something just far enough out of the ordinary that you were reported by the people whom your actions had made uncomfortable.

In the Bethlem Royal Hospital, more notoriously called by the sinister name "Bedlam," a women suffering anxiety and depression, who repeatedly attempted self harm by banging her head against the walls, was finally moved to the "Incurables" department.

They literally had a department for the people they were giving up on. The ones deemed not worthy of help. Left there, only to be fed and clothed till death comes. Grim. Made even more so by the knowledge that if I lived during that time, I would certainly be committed, and would doubtfully ever make it out again.

Thankfully, in modern times, depression, anxiety, and chronic stress are for the most part seen in a clearer light. Mental illness is recognized now as just that, an illness, something to be treated as a reality, not a figment of the patients imagination, or as a life sentence in a madhouse.

That being said, I do believe there can often be misdiagnosis of mental illness. It's easy to jump to extreme conclusions. I would say personally, I knew what I was dealing with was something more serious then teen angst, when it outlasted my teens and triggered an eating disorder.

Sadly, though we have left more extremist eras behind, there is still a stigma attached in some minds, to clinical depression and other mental disorders.

I have often felt the judgment of some, and have been the recipient of their suggestions to "just get over it" or the incredibly offensive "you're just sensitive."

Why yes, yes I am sensitive.

And my sensitivity does not give you permission to trivialize my pain.

I am an empath. I am a highly sensitive person. I am a feeler.

Looking deeper, I am a listener. I am highly aware of your pain and your needs. I am a lover.

And I am stronger for every day I feel no desire or need whatsoever to get out of bed, and yet, day by day, I still get up.

In my high school years I had close friends tell me things I have never forgotten. Words that shook my already hormonal-confused-trying-grow-up-too-fast-teen-self into a place of deep self disgust. I couldn't believe how incredibly weak and pathetic I was. Look at them! My friends and siblings, so happy and productive. And me? I eat too much and I cry every day. I'm worthless.

Now, on the other side of years spent fighting those beliefs and teaching myself how to care for, love and strengthen my understanding of who I am and why I'm worth investing in, unfortunately I still get the same messages from some.

I have come to the belief that when I hear the words "You're so sensitive." it is often someone else's insecurities speaking out. A smoke screen for someone who just wasn't ready to be truthful with me, or someone who is hiding their own soft tender places, not ready for the open hearted lifestyle of vulnerability.

This perspective helps so much. It gives me reason to ward off bitterness and anger.

Yet it also puts me in a place of trying desperately to discern what relationships I should be patient with, waiting it out to see if the other person will eventually be ready to live in openness with me? Or are they relationships I should walk away from for my own protection?

Back to yesterday. Throwing parties, is a tool in my tool box.

I constantly struggle with feeling that most of my "just for fun" activities are a waste of time, and I feel ashamed of not being more productive, or of not focusing more on making money. Yet somehow, throwing a party, feeding my loved ones, creating a lovely space for relaxation and laughter, where tummies might be filled and eyes given reasons to sparkle, that doesn't feel so much like a waste of time. Remarkably, it gives me energy. Which is a big damn deal. Energy escapes me on my best days.

An hour before the party, a sweet friend showed up early. We spread my colorful scarf collection over lampshades, lit candles (fire hazards abounded! thats what makes parties fun right??) and started various vessels of hot water, for tea and pasta. It was so simple. So, incredible simple! Easy, calm, happy. For almost four whole hours, I didn't think about the Grey Place. I didn't think about how much of a failure I feel. I didn't think about making money. I didn't feel my heart begin to race, and my eyes didn't fill with hot frightened, overwhelmed tears.

Instead, I thought about how pretty I felt in my outrageous fairy godmother style ball gown. I thought about how delicious the pesto would be with the penne noodles. I thought about making sure everyone got a lemon bar. I thought about how spicy and warm the wine was on my tongue. I thought about what a genius Steven Spielberg is. I thought about how I wouldn't have to clean up anything till the next day. I thought about how pretty Danielle looked. I thought about how to covertly take a picture of Lucas looking so philosophical in the mid century modern chair. I thought love thoughts to everyone in the room.

Conclusive thoughts this morning...

The dishes aren't as bad as I thought they would be. Maybe someone will pay me to throw a party for their friends? I'll never grow out of playing dress-up. I'm doing this once a month for the rest of my life. I wish more people felt what I feel right now. I have to tell someone about it.

I never want to forget what it feels like to be depressed, to feel fearful of my own mind. I will never turn you away if you need to talk, to be heard, to cry together. I want to be allowed to use my pain as a bridge to others in more isolated spaces.

On the other hand, I'm working on my tool box. It feels so empty sometimes. Little by little I want to fill it with fool-proof, effective, beautiful ways to cope, to smile, to motivate. I don't belong in the Incurable ward. No one does. And while I don't think I will ever walk away from pain, no one gets to do that (and if I did I would certainly lose a powerful communication skill), I am however, determined to become the mistress of my life in a way that secures me in hope.

(Disclaimer: above is an opinion piece, written from my personal experience. It is in no way intended to give council to anyone struggling with mental illness. It's only purpose is to be a testimony of unity with others who may also struggle with mood disorders, and or to encourage those, who having family or friends struggling with these issues, to be open minded and open hearted.)

depression
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About the Creator

Hadley Frances

Long honey-brown hair and just one dimple.

Loves: pasta, rivers, other people.

Writer by night, or rather by the hours I do not spend at my day job, or hunting for thrifted treasures...

Read on, folks!

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