Standing at the intersection of Asperger’s / autism and depression (?) [Mental Health Monday]

And I’m not sure which light is which.  I can’t tell what’s green, what’s yellow, and what’s red.  I can’t tell which way I should go, which street I should cross, which path I should take.

All I know is that there is walking to do and designated crosswalks to guide me, but I don’t feel like walking just now.  And I’m not sure when I will again.

I’m not sure of anything.  I’m not sure what I should be doing.  I’m not sure what I’m interested in.  I’m not sure how I feel.  I’m not sure how to start feeling again.

I am sure that I don’t feel like doing much, even things that I have historically loved doing.  I know that my curiosity, about anything and everything, has gone dormant.  I can’t seem to revive my mojo at work (which involves a “special interest “).  New blog post ideas have slowed to a trickle and begun to stagnate.  I don’t feel fresh or flowery.  I’ve begun to rely on the surplus stash of inspiration jotted down months ago.

I might feel like going outside, except that it’s too hot.  Sunny spaces are out of the question, as they’re unbearable and they keep shifting.

Being inside isn’t much better; I pace the place like a caged lion, except that there is no escape to plan, no trainer to outsmart.  It seems as though I’m my own trainer, and I’m going to have to outsmart myself.

I’ve been through depression before.  I’ve been through the cyclic kind, where everything is a cycle, nothing is fulfilling, and I remember always waiting.  No matter where I was or what I was doing, I was always waiting for the other.  I would spend the week waiting for the weekend, and I would spend the weekend waiting for the week to begin again.  I would spend the day waiting for night, and the night waiting for day.  That’s just how it was.

I’ve also experienced the type of depression in which there is a sadness so profound that it becomes debilitating.  I could be very successful without an objective care in the world, but for some unknown reason or another, I couldn’t climb out of the abyss.  As a massage therapist, I could have my schedule packed with clients, working from home, setting my own rules, and calling my own shots.  That’s a massage therapist’s dream.  And yet, I held back tears that often gave me no clue as to where they came from.  I contorted almost physically to hold them back and hold myself together, only for the dam to break the minute the front door closed behind my last client of the day.

This time (and I think this might be a This Time), it’s different.  Maybe that’s why it took me so long to recognize the possibility that this could be a This Time in the first place.

I feel flat.  I feel like a dud.  I don’t feel the hopelessness of the cyclic times, nor do I feel the cluelessness of the debilitating times.  This time I feel an absence of what I’ve come to know as Me, an absence of what, under normal circumstances, Should Be.

I feel as though I’ve gone to sleep, begun to operate in “Safe Mode”, with minimal processes running.  I feel dry, like a desert, and monotonous, like an ocean.  Almost emotionless, which in itself, if applicable to myself, is a problem.

I do know that there are usual suspects in the biological realm: both my parents have thyroid problems, and mine runs on the low side.  I know that aluminum has neurological symptoms and that mine read high when tested.  I know that my brain is still adjusting to the health journey I began a couple months ago.  And I know that antihistamines can slow brain activity, and I’ve taken my share (and probably that of several others) over the past few months, too.

I also know that there are emotional culprits.  Deaths in the family, PTSD, and several other players.

And I’ve had physical pain as well. Which had also necessitated the ingestion of mind-slowing medications.

And then there’s an unknown factor, or several.  Maybe I’m bored with an aspect of my life or two.  Maybe my Qi energy is stagnant.  Maybe although I’ve gotten sleep lately, years of sleep deprivation might be catching up with me.

So many maybes.

Alexithymia, the difficulty with identifying and expressing emotions, is almost certainly at play here, exerting its cloaking and blurring and hiding beyond the horizon effects.

Either way, you may or may not notice a change in how often I write here; that remains to be seen.  I’ll only write when I feel that what I have to say is somehow constructive or meaningful.  Maybe that means significant change, or maybe nothing on here will change at all.

We shall see. ❤

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