The Collapse

First Note: It took me awhile to write the following. This is my experience with what I can only describe as depression. This is only my experience. Things got dark and it took me a moment to get through it and then to express it. All this to say, that things are brighter now, I am okay.

We all say “One day at a time” and this rolls off the tongue with ease. Some of us even believe it. It can hold some sort of salvation, that this day will end, a bite-sized living, something manageable. Sometimes, these singular days need be broken down into hours or minutes…just to get through, sanity attained in this second alone.

Last week, I started to feel the repetition of these days. And by feel I don’t mean emotionally. This feeling as a settling weight or a looming extinguishing of the light. When I would prepare for bed - pee, brush my teeth, pills down, wheel into the bedroom, transfer to bed - I began to think, So, this again tomorrow? the novelty of this living becoming a low-level dread.

On Saturday night, the Sweet Wife asked, “Would you like to go to church tomorrow?” I did, I didn’t want to speak to this want. I didn’t want to make my wants known as it felt like they were being fulfilled out of duty. This is a judgment, of course. I know this. And yet, this is where my brain led me. I am tired of being treated as special or with extra needs. Off to sleep I went.

Come Sunday, my thoughts landed in the untethered land of purposelessness…and they lingered. What is the point of all of this? What purpose do I have doing the same hamster-wheel activities day in and day out? The irony of these thoughts is not lost on me. It’s just that my non-weight-bearing status has brought the walls a bit closer, a bit tighter. The waning variation in my days has brought a microscope to my own purposelessness. And so sit and entertain my purposelessness. I become victim of my confirmation biases, just accumulating evidence as to my own purposelessness. I want off this hamster wheel.

My days are largely quite lovely, easy even. I am surrounded by people who love and care for me, leaning into me in ways that border on heroic. I am well-taken care of and safe. The Sweet Wife has gotten me out for a number of field trips. A couple of friends have kindly invited me out for our Saturday morning runs, but they push me to and fro, and there is very little running for me or them. People have brought me books and Legos and I haven’t read or assembled one. World Cup games are losing their luster. I am surrounded by kind humans willing me to thrive, cheering me on to whatever is next.

And still, my brain stumbles.

By Monday, I am under water. The Sweet Wife goes to work and I cannot muster a drop of joy. The reality of my gratitude is still tangible and quite real, but it is at a distance now, harder to reach. It is all there, but I am drifting away on a slowly deflating flamingo-shaped floaty, going wherever this changing tide is taking me. And I go willingly, unable to will anything different.

Let’s back up two weeks, eight days to be precise. I was at the niece’s birthday party and I am restricted to the patio. There are no ADA friendly bathrooms here. There is another lady there who is normally boisterous, loud, and hilarious. In fact, I don’t notice her until we are well into this birthday party. This strikes me as odd. And it’s not until the Sweet Wife and I are about to leave that her and I exchange words.

“I didn’t even realize you were here. Very quiet you are. You okay?” This is all a paraphrase, but you’ll get the drift.

“Yeah, I’ve been here. Just quiet, depressed I guess.” She doesn’t look depressed - she is here after all - but I’m aware that depression doesn’t have a look. I assume she is joking as this would not be far-fetched for either of us.

“Well, see ya around. Maybe next time if you could choose not to be depressed, that would be great.”

She agreed to try. We laughed.

In my head, I thought this was funny because of the irony. Who could choose not to have depression?

Later that night, I found it hard to sleep. My brain, as it sometimes does, reviews my every behavior and spoken word, highlighting the most egregious things I did or said. Tonight’s movie revolved around my words to the funny lady, Choose not to be depressed? It’s less funny now and I am concerned. I still think it’s funny, but admittedly I don’t know my audience well. What if she was being quiet because she was depressed? There are other questions I ask myself, but this one summarizes the gist of my flagellation.

In the morning, I text the funny-maybe-depressed-lady an apology. She is gracious. I trust that she is being honest when she tells me “We are good.” I saw her a few nights later, and she had a gray sweatshirt tied around her neck, mocking my gray neck brace. I am trusting that we are good.

And yet, the real irony is that I am here trying to choose my way out of this incoming weight. This is uncharted territory for me. I’ve experienced sadness. I remember the first time I felt despair - a hollowness in my belly, an ache without refrain. I know hopelessness, but this feels different. It is as if there is a vacuum above my head and I am in a large plastic bag, spacious even, but the air is slowly being sucked away from around me…except the air is joy. I can feel that the world around me is losing shades of delight right before my eyes, and they’re closed.

Just as my gratitude feels out of reach, so does my agency to do anything about this suffocation. I don’t know what is coming, or when or if it has an end, but I succumb, willingly if you will, to whatever it is that is coming. I’m not scared of this uncertainty, just apathetic to its arrival and effects. Regardless, I have only one reference point to depression - the inability to get out of bed…and things are that bad.

Being in this wheelchair, only for six weeks at this point, has muddled my identity. Who am I when I don’t do anything but sit? When my contributions and productivity plunge to nonexistent who am I? I shrink from this statement. I don’t want this to be read as a generalization for all humans in wheelchairs everywhere. One could say I am grieving, even though I know this isn’t permanent. I just don’t know who I am while I sit waiting for my time to be up.

There is nothing I can do to make this better. I can’t work really hard and get out of the chair sooner or stronger. Alternatively, there are innumerable things I could do to prolong my time in this chair. Barring those shenanigans, I am just here, like a CD in a CD player on repeat, spinning in circles without even the hope of a bump in the road to cause any unexpected skips. Spinning. Spinning. Just spinning.

I am tired of sitting. The only other option I have is to lie down. I put myself to bed. The sun is still high, warm. I nap. I wake up. I scroll YouTube shorts. So. Many. Pointless. Videos. I watch numerous comedians. I laugh at nothing. There is a window to my left, behind our bed, facing west. Its let-in sunlight inches across the foot of the bed. I watch the light start on the carpeted floor, then climbs the side of the bed, before slowly working its way across my ankles and toes. It moves so slowly, seemingly slower than anything I’ve witnessed. I want to be nowhere.

The sun moves across the bed before dropping. behind the trees behind me. It is 7:12 PM. Only. And due to my late-day nap, I am not ready for sleep. Sabotage. I read my evening half page of wisdom and do my evening writing, basically an assessment of my day and my participation in it. I force myself through these questions, trying to maintain some semblance of routine. In summary, I’m not nailing it.

I move to the recliner and scroll more YouTube videos. How can there be so many? I am not entertained. Nearing 11 PM, I decide it must be time to go to bed. Please. I skip brushing my teeth. Screw it. I sleep in the guest room just so I don’t disturb the sleeping wife. I will myself to sleep. Turns out (surprise), I’m not in charge of this either.

Tuesday arrives and yesterday’s feelings of being underwater feel like a lighthearted joke. Today, I feel groggy and sluggish. The distance between me and joy lengthens. I manage my morning readings and writing, but nothing more. I’ve been awake for 90 minutes and I try for a nap, trying to right this sinking ship. A nap eludes me. The ship continues to flounder.

There are World Cup games, but I spend my time scrolling on YouTube. I am disinterested in either. I slip into a nap. No reprieve is granted upon waking.

My Sweet Wife said she is going with her sister to go pick up the niece and nephew from the grandparents’ house today. She’s been gone for seven hours. This feels less like a pick-up and more like a lake day. She invited me along, but I declined. I didn’t feel like going to the Goodwill and then sitting on the deck for hours while everyone was down at the lake. I chose this. I am both resentful of her absence and delighted she is gone. It is this lose-lose of emotional roulette that is a strong indicator that this has everything to do with my breaking brain. Regardless, the resentment stands. I do no work on myself to address these discrepancies. What’s the point?

I am able to get an email off to my therapist. He’s a lovely human, generous and kind. I haven’t met with him in at least a year.

It’s been awhile since we’ve chatted, but I may need your help again if you have time.

I was in an accident on May 23 while I was hiking. I had to be airlifted to Harborview. I don’t know if there are any additional details that really matter other than I am six weeks into my self-inflicted timeout. I am restricted to a wheelchair for another month and the plan is for me to go back to work on Aug 17th.

Over the last few days, I’ve been struggling. I am bored and my resentments are building. I’m not enjoying who I am right now. I know my way is through this moment, but I may need some of your wisdom if you have some time for me.

I am in bed when Kendra comes home, again, watching the sunlight move the end of the bed. I have both run out of things to do and the desire to do them. Kendra is alarmed, but she is doing her best to remain calm. Her concern comes out in lingering. I have no reassurance to offer. Everything is without purpose. I cannot be convinced otherwise.

I was never naive that this 10-week chair sentence might take its toll. It would have been miraculous to bounce through this, Tigger-like, and come out the other side unscathed or blissfully unaware. And so I find myself needing to pay what is due, but my pockets are empty. I can’t seem to outthink myself. I am completely empty, a bankruptcy of soul and mind from merely sitting for six weeks.

I am over all of it. I am tired of being told what I can and cannot do. I am tired of being dependent on others for everything. I am tired of YouTube. I am tired of World Cup games. I am tired of being seated all day long. I am tired of receiving. I am tired of being pitied. I am tired of telling my story. I am just so tired of whatever this living is right now.

But none of it matters. My being over all of this changes nothing. I am still here.

I’m not intentionally trying to minimize or ignore my experience or privilege in this moment. I have it so good. My brain registers this - all the friends and all their generous acts and gifts. I’ve received texts from friends today. Some even made a delightful video for me. I watched both World Cup games, but then pulled out my phone because my brain was bored…or uncomfortable. I was able to leave the house yesterday to mail thank you cards to the humans who have shown up for me. I have it so good. And yet, this head knowledge does little to change this physical discomfort.

---

The Sweet Wife and I were to have a date this week, or so went the plan. She offers to take over the planning of the date. “Great.” I say, in the most muted and an unenthusiastic way possible.

In the morning, I wake up to email from her describing her plans to take me to Nisqually (a boardwalk along the Puget Sound) and then go to lunch at my favorite taco shop. My insides grate at her plans. I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to do anything. I’m not intentionally choosing this so much as my body wants nothing to do with anything. I have no interest to go or stay. My desires are absent. It all feels like a crushing overwhelm and the answer is to lie in bed and do nothing.

When she wakes up, I let her know I would prefer to not go out, or to stay close. Her worry is palpable. I can see that she is taking it upon herself to provide me with joy, and it is coming my way whether I want it or not.

She shifts and plans for a walk in town. She sets a leave time of 10:30 AM. I fall asleep and wake up after our leave time. My nap did not save me.

She drives. I am but a passenger waiting for her to store or un-store my wheelchair from the back. We both forget the leg rests for my wheelchair, so I hold my legs up while she pushes. And she becomes joy incarnate, a balance to my dumpster fire. She noses my wheelchair in the direction of every flower or object of interest along this asphalt path. “Would you like to see the overlook?” She is effusive. It’s an eight-foot grass opening next to the path. “I can see it,” I say. Her enthusiasm is at its max. Mine, at its absolute nadir. It’s not that I don’t want to mirror her joy, but I am incapable.

Once back in the car, “Would you like to take the long way home?” I don’t, but it feels like she might, or that she might want to take the long way home to keep me out of the house or our bed for that much longer. “Whatever,” I say. I am apathy incarnate. We take the long way.

Back at home, I wheel myself to my side of our bed and pivot in. This transferring used to be a process, but it is smooth today. It’s not quite 1 PM and I’m ready for my second nap of the day.

That nap comes and goes and I spend the rest of the afternoon on YouTube, scrolling. It is all mindless distraction, a dulling of my senses, a passing of the time. YouTube and sleeping are the two things that make me forget about time. I take a third nap.

I’m coping, but not well. I am able to see myself, third person like, laid out in bed - shoddy, slow movements; a dragging brain; purpose oozing from my pores. There is a severity to my situation with which I am unfamiliar. And now, after three naps, my brain doubles down. I’m sure I will feel better in the morning. I just need some more sleep.

I don’t have much of a routine, but what little I have I am fighting to complete. I do my reading. I type in my answers under my nightly questions. I commit to flossing tonight. I haven’t flossed since May 22nd, the night before my fall. At first it was the hospitalization. Then, I blamed it on my separated shoulder. Now, I have no excuse. From my previous meltdowns, I know that a lack of dental hygiene is an early indicator of my own, imminent collapse. So, while I have been brushing my teeth twice a day like a good, little boy (except for two nights ago), tonight I floss like my life depends on it. After one and half months without flossing, the white porcelain is pink with blood when I am done.

It is time to go unconscious and I am grateful for this reprieve. Good night.

---

It is Thursday and I am awake. I make myself a to-do list. One of the items is “Less naps.” Another is “Respond to all the texts you’ve ignored over the last few days.”

One of the humans from pickleball wants to come over. I do not want this. It’s not him. It’s me. This human is bright. We’re friends because our brightness is usually quite symbiotic. If he is to come over, I’m either going to have to fake it or play out my role of Eeyore. Neither feel ideal. And outside of his visit to our house last week, I’ve never seen this human outside of our pickleball gym. Me showing up as myself - listless, forlorn, without purpose - may be too much.

I text him: “It’s not inconvenient, and you are welcome here anytime, I just don’t feel very fun today🫣 Perhaps another day and I’ll be a bit more chipper🤷🏻‍♂️

He responds: “Sounds like you need cheering up. I’ll only stay for five minutes.”

Immediately, I dread his visit. I feel so far outside of myself that I don’t know who to be. I also know that isolating and ceasing any and all contact is a couple steps deeper into this untethered darkness. Simultaneous to my dread, I feel an odd thankfulness for him choosing to show up despite me feeling like I’m not myself. Because, the reality of this is, I just don’t feel happy. Just because I am untethered to my usual brightness doesn’t mean I am not myself. I am me even now, when I am forlorn and listless. I am a both/and. I’m just uncomfortable being forlorn and listless around others. I don’t want to feel this way, but I do. This is still me.

I settle into the recliner. I watch France and Morocco battle it out. Pickleball Bill (not his real name) comes over. With him he has a card and a t-shirt - a stick-figured dude with “Ows” and arrows pointing to every inch of his body. It is appropriate for my current state.

He is bright but not forcefully so. He doesn’t slip into any toxic positivity, but stays present with me, acknowledging my current suffering. He’s showing up with tenderness. We chat about photography and hikes we’ve done and ones we’d still like to do. For a moment, I forget that I am not myself. I like this part the most.

“Hey, thanks for choosing to come over even though you knew I wasn’t going to be super fun.”

He says, “When we got done texting, I thought about giving you some time, but then I thought, ‘Who wouldn’t want to see me?’” At this we laugh. The confidence on this human…and he is right. He is a lesson in showing up. I want to be like Pickleball Bill (still not his real name).

I take a nap. A friend from work stops by unexpectedly with homemade treats from our coworkers in Lewiston. I tear up while we chat. This weight of these low days while I am surrounded by so much love and support borders on the absurd, but I know that this doesn’t make sense and, for now, this is okay.

Another friend decides to come over tonight to work with my bees that I have involuntarily neglected since early May. I’m more bee-watcher than beekeeper at this point. And so he comes over and looks at our three hives and puts honey supers on each one. He finds that one hive’s queen has died or absconded and there is no brood in the hive. This is a serious problem. He swaps out a frame of brood from another hive and now we wait. These ladies now have three weeks to raise their own queen. They are constant marvels. I find myself cheering for them.

The Sweet Wife comes home and I am out in the driveway on the scooter watching my friend care for our bees. She joins me, just milling about, watching our friend work. In the end, our friend’s wife comes over and we eat dinner together. The day is passing and I am almost unaware of its thickness.

---

The subsequent days do trend towards something brighter. There is no immediate lifting of this weight. It is still dark, but not-in-bed-taking-three-naps-a-day dark. I would like to think that I am resilient and strong and I don’t much like that it only took six weeks of this self-imposed timeout in a wheelchair for me to self-destruct. Epiphany or not, I realize that 95% of my coping falls under the umbrella of exercise and being out in nature. This non-weight-bearing status and the subsequent wheelchair has left me with a pittance of coping abilities and I am floundering. The temptation is to dig deep, head down, to ride out the remaining weeks with grit and determination, hoping I never find myself in this situation again.

The alternative feels a bit more unpredictable. What if I lean into this moment? What if I sit here allowing myself to be bored, unhappy, or impatient? What if I see these feelings and allow them to just be, maybe even facing them with a bit of curiosity and grace? What if curiosity and grace aren’t available to me today, but I’ll try again tomorrow? What if I stop trying to distract or dull my senses but allow myself to feel the big feelings and know that I am still me, still worthy and valuable, even now?

I don’t know what any of this looks like. Feeling the weight and slowness of these days is humbling. Even though some brightness has returned, I am well aware that more dark days could be mine. I am clearly not impervious to such feelings, they’re just new to me. And this is okay.

I spend the weekend at home. I grieve my inability to participate in life outside. At night, as twilight lingers on the horizon, I grieve not being able to be out there, sitting outside my tent watching the stars pierce the darkness or coming off a trail in the dark by headlamp. I had plans for this summer. I wanted to be out there squeezing the juices out of these summer days. Instead, I am reminded of my own lack of agency, my frailty and smallness. I am sitting here wanting everything I don’t have. And so I suffer.

Over the weekend, Kendra and I connect emotionally and this is life-giving, compressions to my tight chest. On Monday, I attend therapy via Zoom. I am grateful I was able to ask for this help when I did. I am grateful he said ‘yes’ to me yet again. Sure, my purposelessness remains. Sure, I am bored beyond comprehension. But I am here, and I am alive, and I like me. These big feelings I could do without, but I am getting my head wrapped around them and who I am when I am when forlorn and listless and sad. I am trying to rest in this both/and and let this be good enough.

And just like that I am through another day.

Last Note - I now know firsthand that our choices are quite limited when this darkness comes. There is no making light of this weight. If you are depressed and would simply like to chat, please do all in your power to make that happen. I would be honored. If there is one thing I know, it is that we are better together. This is easy to say, but we must fight for the brightness of relationship...when we can.