Shrinkage

It's not what you think.  This is about therapy.

I am nothing if not well-counseled.  What I have learned is that childhood is very important, that the injuries you suffer then are injuries you carry with you for life.  If you are self-aware enough, have some help, and do the work, you can get beyond them.  They still happened, but they don't have to continue to cause you anxiety or rule your behavior.

I take this on faith, because I'm not there yet.  My inner second-grader guide me more than I think.  I'm trying to be aware of these things.  I've been thinking about that kid lately.  As a kid, I felt pretty bad about who I was.  That hasn't changed.  As a kid, I ate to medicate.  Some people do drugs.  Some drink.  I ate, mostly.  My parents sent me to my first shrink when I was ten or eleven.  His goal was, I think, to make me thin.  I am pretty sure he was a Ph.D.  I'm sure he came highly recommended.  I went one time.  Here's what he did:  he hypnotized me.  I kid you not.

I had to look at a flickering light, then close my eyes and concentrate on whatever flickering I could see through my eyelids while he convinced me that I wanted to be thin enough to wear a new, blue bathing suit.  I think he suggested that I ride my bike for 30 minutes a day.  I remember being antsy.

The guy was not unkind.  But even then I thought it was bullshit.  I thought hypnosis was silly, and I didn't feel as though I was in whatever trance I was supposed to be in.  What I knew was that I was supposed to be serious about the process.  It was for my own good.  My folks were concerned.  I have always been a pleaser, a good do-bee, and I was there, too.

There are two things that strike me about this now, more than thirty years later.  First, I figure my parents thought it was bullshit, too, since I only went one time.  Second--and this is probably of primary importance--I wonder why the shrink didn't explore why I was overeating so much.  It seems so obvious.  I was eating as a kind of medications.  Think about the line in Mean Girls, when Tina Fey's voiceover is itemizing the various lunch groups in the school cafeteria.  One table is full of (fat) girls "who eat their feelings."  It's funny because it's true.  It's also heartbreaking.

My reading about depression tells me that the concept that kids can be depressed is a recent development.  The idea was that depression is rooted in childhood injury and that children cannot develop depression while still children.  Something like that.  That belief no longer carries the day.  I assume that's why the guy didn't ask about my eating.  I am appalled, though at what passed for therapy.  Mostly I ended up feeling like a disappointment.  I hope my parents didn't pay too much. 

Checking In

I haven't tracked in at least a month.  It was one more chore, and I couldn't make myself do it when the wheels came off.  In fact, I couldn't make myself do much of anything.

I have worked out twice since Saturday.  That's a win.  I understand that regular exercise is comparable to or better than meds for overcoming depression.  The standards for "improvement," however, are pretty low.  You can be improved and still miserable.

I've been reading Undoing Depression by Richard O'Connor.  He's a therapist who is also a depressive (his word).  His theory is that depression can become a habit, and the best way to overcome it is therapy and a change in that downward spiral of thinking that is symptomatic of the disease.  (He calls it a disease, and I'm ok with that.  Hell, I embrace it.)  Meditation is likely to help.  He also encourages (repeatedly) regular exercise.  Who am I to argue?  So now that I am functioning and sleeping (more or less), I'm back on the wagon.

I have not gained any weight.  I haven't lost, but if anything, I'm a little smaller.  I have been eating for hunger only (well mostly only), and I've been lucky.  I assume this means that nearly a year of not eating my feelings has become a habit.  This I like.

I'm traveling for work right now, and last night I was able to forego the fries.  This morning at the hotel, I had cereal and fruit instead of the waffle.  Tonight for dinner I avoided the chips and guacamole I like so much.  I guess my point is that I'm taking care of myself in ways that do not include eating for comfort.  This is a huge change in my life.  In fact, I wonder a bit if not eating for comfort helped spur my bad period a month ago.  Emotion has to go somewhere.  Happily, it's not on my ass.  Unhappily, I have to learn to deal with it in other ways.  I guess I'm growing up.  Ha.

Darkness Visible

I stole the title from William Saroyan.

I have found, over the years, that I am prone to depression.  I have had, I think, three seriously depressive periods.  I'm just coming out of one (knock wood).  If you have ever suffered from this, you know how debilitating and freaking scary it is.  Forget about decent sleep.  One is hopeless and joyless.  Suicide seems like one of the few good resolutions.  It's not rational, and even if you recognize that, you don't care.  I could go on, but I won't.  I don't really want to think about the last month or so.

If  you have read my past entries, you know I've had a lot going on.  I reached my limit, and I was spun.  I'm doing much better now.  Meds and therapy help.  My wife is unbelievably kind and supportive. 

I didn't eat.  I couldn't.  (This is a first.  I'm ok with not wanting to eat, too.)  But I have not been tracking, and I have not limited what I've been eating.  Willingness to eat has been enough.  My appetite is back, and I don't feel much need to eat a lot.  It makes me thing that whatever my issues, I might have--for the moment--changed my relationship with food over the last year.  I hope so.

If you suffer, my heart goes out to you.  I have found a book called Undoing Depression pretty useful.  You can read about it here www.undoingdepression.com.

I'll be writing more here later.  But that's all for now.