Sun, 24 Jul 2022
A Depressive Overton Shift
I thrive on labels. I understand why many folks eschew such things; I can sympathize with the perception of labels as limiting and how it can feel like one is being put into a rigid box. In a sense, that’s not wrong: a label is a box. For me, though, if I'm already in a box, I would sure like to know what that box is so I can orient my expectations and goals appropriately and use that box to my own advantage from a position of informed understanding rather than constantly bumping into walls I don't know exist.
In my experience, a label bestows useful knowledge and provides one a more pragmatic framework from which to move forward. Lacking such a label might offer blissful ignorance, but won’t necessarily mitigate the label’s effects—even if the former might promise more comfort or feel more "free" (for lack of a better word).
That said, in many cases, labels are an assuredly problematic way of pejoratively invalidating or disempowering folks (to be rhetorically generous). This is particularly true of those within an already marginalized demographic subject to the harmful effects of such stereotyping. So I’m not saying labels are unequivocally good, but I am saying that I find them to be tremendously useful for myself (even if some of the labels to which I subscribe can absolutely be used in the above context).
An example of the contrast between productive and limiting labels is that of the distinction of genre versus medium in storytelling. In my view, genre is something of a limiting concept—although I understand why it exists; it's quite useful for categorical purposes and helps folks navigate the borderline infinite content out there and more consistently consume media in line with their personal preferences.
At the same time, though, what if one wants to exceed the boundaries of a singular genre? I love genre-bending films and novels where you could accurately describe them with multiple different labels. As long as they follow internal logic and remain structurally consistent, give me a genre-ambiguous film like Everything Everywhere All At Once over more formulaic (albeit more easily definable) films you'll find amongst the library of most current superhero blockbusters. Also, note that this is not a value judgment about either, just a statement of my general preference for storytelling that often doesn't fall neatly into a genre-specific box.
Unlike genre—which can be reductive and suffocating, depending on the story—medium can be much more rigid while simultaneously allowing for remarkable creativity and ingenuity. Two exemplars of this are poetry and screenwriting. A screenplay must adhere to some pretty strict general rules in terms of form, at least if you don't intend on producing and directing it yourself. While taking a screenwriting class years ago, a number of peers I encountered found this stifling of their creativity, but I could not empathize with that logic. For me, knowing the boundaries of what I could do in a screenplay was a delightful challenge: how do I tell the story I want while remaining within the framework of the form in which I have chosen to tell it?
The same goes for poetry. Free verse notwithstanding, there is a wide variety of poetic expression, including much songwriting, that is bound by syllabic and syntactical rules. Without such rules, we would not have sonnets or villanelles or any of the modern songs we might hear from our favorite recording artists today. Within the various limitations dictated by different poetic forms, there have been at least as many disparate utilizations of such creative rigidity—from Shakespeare to The Beatles. The "rules" of form do not limit an artist's ability for creative expression, they simply necessitate an additional layer of creative problem-solving to operate within their chosen framework while telling us the story they aim to convey. Additionally, a good artist will know the rules well enough to know when they can subvert them for greater emotional impact.
***
Shifting back to labels: I fucking love them. I love knowing what labels do and do not apply to me. I attribute this, in large part, to a lack of capacity to be labeled early in life. In retrospect, my mental and emotional experience as a child was...atypical? Hard to say definitively since I have only anecdotal data to work with and the internal human experience exits on a spectral continuum, but based on what I’ve learned throughout numerous conversations with a vast array of individuals, my brain functions differently than most folks I’ve encountered.
Growing up, I struggled often with understanding why I was the way I was (I still do, I suppose). Realistically—even though I intuitively felt the difference beforehand—I didn't really understand how much of a chasm existed between my peers and me until high school. I didn't fit into any of the "boxes" my peers fell into. There really wasn't a label that made any sense to me. Nothing felt like it fit and I had a tough time identifying with anyone beyond extremely broad categories, like my then religious affiliation.
Eventually, I took the Meyers-Briggs personality test and learned I'm an INFJ (or really, INFJ/P because I split evenly on the last field, though I do tend to resonate more with the INFJ categorization). At the time I took the test, INFJ consisted of about 1% of the population—and 0.5% of the male population. Instantly, with a simple label, I felt immensely more secure in myself. I wasn't broken, just rare. I could live with that.
Years later, after I'd chronologically been an adult for a few years, I was diagnosed with major recurring depressive disorder, another label. Once again, I had more information about myself and could now thrive within that framework. Knowing my propensity for depressive states and melancholic emotions didn't change my experience of them, but it gave me a better way of navigating life, allowed me a less value judgment prone way of looking at my internal world. I just experience depressive episodes now and again. That's how my brain works. I can work with that.
And I did work with that. For years, I was able to chart my course into the future, knowing that the waves of depression would crash upon my cerebral shores from time to time, but that now I had warning of them, could navigate that reality deftly and find beauty in life despite the depression. Without the label of "major recurring depressive disorder," I would likely be dead right now. Putting a name to the phenomenon demystified it. I knew what I was dealing with and it wasn't scary.
When I was younger, my only framework for my depressive episodes was spiritual: if I was experiencing depression, I didn't know what was happening or why, and the only explanatory framework I had for mental, emotional, and psychological problems was demons. Literal demons. When depression would grip me in the past, I thought demonic forces were attacking me and I would pray for salvation. No matter how much I prayed, though, I could never forestall, prevent, or diminish these depressive episodes. Once I had an accurate, clinical label for them, however, they lost a significant degree of power over me.
I don't pathologize a cold. Colds come and go. So do depressive episodes. They strike when my emotional immune system is at a low point, and they last just as long as it takes for my emotional immunity to recover its strength. There’s nothing demonic about a cold. Depressive episodes are just a cold in the brain.
That is, until they aren't. Recently, I had such a cold, but it developed into psychological pneumonia. And now it's chronic. To cut with the metaphor for a moment and state it plainly: I've been in a depressive episode for two months, and I'm beginning to question whether this is an "episode" in the limited temporal sense, or if this most recent depression is symptomatic of a dramatic shift in my emotional Overton window.
Am I experiencing a depressive episode? Or is this just the way it is now? Is this my new baseline or simply a swing of the pendulum? Have I once again reached stasis, but a new stasis wherein I’m incapable of envisioning a future I want any part of? I don't have enough data points to answer those questions with any definitive conviction, but I'll say this: I fucking hope not. And honestly, I don't think so.
If you were to ask me two months and one day ago, "Jesse, do you think today is the last day you'll exist in your current psychological form?" I would have said, "Nah. I've been here before. I'll rebound in a week or two, three tops." And I would have meant it. And I would have been accurate. And I would have been wrong.
I have never had a depressive episode last for longer than a few weeks. Sure, I've had multiple depressive episodes hit me in relatively rapid succession, but I've never been trapped in the same depressive episode for this long before. It has been so long that it's starting to feel like my new normal, which is not a sustainable thought.
I refuse to believe this is my baseline now. If it is, I'm done. It's over. Fortunately, I'm not done. I'm not a fighter, but I am a survivor. I persist. I continue. I do not fold. Right now I'm going all in on the hope that I'm on the cusp of something good. I'm either on the brink of salvation or disaster at this point. I've passed a particular crossroads where I'm either going to find that the fork I've chosen is leading me to restoration or ruin. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, of this I am certain, but I am also hopeful that it will get better.
Since last month, I've been going through a diagnostic process that I've been seeking for the better part of a year and a half now. It's entirely coincidental (and extremely fortunate) that this diagnosis happens to coincide with my current mental state. At the end of this diagnosis, regardless of what I learn, I will be closing a chapter and beginning a new one.
The former chapter centered around depression and learning to navigate it, but—while I developed many helpful tools—I may have gravely misattributed causation. In this upcoming chapter, regardless of anything else, I will be much better able to ascribe the proper causal factors to my long-term struggle with depression.
Two months ago, circumstances beyond my control submerged my brain into a state of near constant depression and anxiety (the anxiety has alleviated significantly, thankfully; to those of you who deal with chronic anxiety, my heart goes out to you—depression is familiar to me, but that anxiety was fucking crippling and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone).
I feel like I'm close to another pivot—one from ignorance to knowledge. With that knowledge, I will have practical next steps. I don’t know what the outcome will look like, but I know this: whatever I'm dealing with right now, it is temporary. For better or worse, this will end. And I just hope that end is a triumph and not a tragedy.
I'm looking for a label. To be clear, I’m not looking for a definition but an explanation. I need to understand how my brain works. Only in understanding this can I begin to move forward productively. I have to know if I'm working on a screenplay, or a free verse poem.
Unless and until I know what I'm working with, I can't possibly expect myself to do well. I am currently doing rather poorly. I will continue to do poorly until I understand why that is. When I do, though, I can make changes, I can incorporate more and better information to lead me to improved outcomes. Who knows? If I can manage that, maybe I'll be unstoppable!
Even if I remain stoppable, though, I'd be happy with any mode of being that is better than that of the oh-god-why-am-I-alive-I-didn't-ask-to-be-born ilk. If I can vanquish that existential nightmare, it will be a fucking win.