A Helluva Lotta Ways

Anyone else sick to death of hearing me lament my own depression? Last time I wrote about it, I said something saturated with fatalism about how neither “fix your life, fix your mind” nor “fix your mind, fix your life” were true. But, as time passed with mounting triggers and a total absence of crutches, I realized that I do do a hell of a lot to fix both my mind and life – and then it gradually dawned on me that my “hell of a lot” is making a hell of a difference.

I’ve been crazy my entire life, but I have also been awake the whole time. When people ask, “when did you have your spiritual awakening?” I reply, “I never fell asleep.” My crazy is the result of trauma (not the trendy kind, the clinical kind. I am a 9/10, sometimes a 10/10 depending on how I classify my mom’s jail time, on the ACEs scale of “adverse childhood experiences”) and tradition, passed through generations like a curse.

The first time I admitted I was really, really sick was when I also admitted myself to a psychiatric ward in a Minneapolis hospital. A few days under lock and key, swallowing prescriptions like a good little numb girl, cohabitating with the criminally insane were enough to solidify my boundaries. I would NEVER go back, but I would go forward. I would carry on. I would figure it out. On my own.

That was almost twenty years ago and I am half-shocked to report that whatever I’ve been doing has worked to keep me out of hospitals and graveyards. Now, I even stay out of the bar scene, off of dating apps, and in my own lane.

This is not medical advice. I’m not a doctor. I don’t even really agree with or “like” doctors, if I’m being transparent. So don’t quote me, don’t sue me, don’t blame me for your symptoms or treatment plan or literally anything else. I’m just a woman sharing my own approach to keeping my own self relatively fine.

So here’s what I do. First of all, when nothing else is working and I completely lose my will to function, or when I fall so far down “The Cave” that I am about to become nonfunctional, I rely on marijuana to pull myself back to numb/positive. Most of my life, this has been illegal and difficult to self-regulate, and the societally-induced shame of it coupled with my early life addict-caused-trauma eventually sends me into its own tailspin of guilt and self-blame. It has also proven to be the single most effective, fast-acting, long lasting, reliable mental health drug by far – no comparison – that I have ever tried. Simply put, pot works. It works immediately, and well, and has virtually no negative side effects other than those self-imposed judgements. That distinct mental fuzziness is not what I would call a drawback; in fact, it is that very softening, the blurring of the sharp lines of mental anguish, the quieting of the SCREAMING in my head, that I am after when I light or eat the medicine.

Unfortunately, over time, the mental fuzz becomes an impediment to my ambitious nature, and I make myself put it down. Typically, I am able to use cannabis as a return to self-love and symptom-tolerance, then ease back into my “hell of a lot” of other self-regulation and coping habits so that I am once again safe enough in my mind and body to function without the “crutch” of medicine. Again – I am not “recommending” this or anything else.

So here I sit, crutchless, writing about how I manage. Triggers come whether invited or not. My first reaction tends to be boundaries, which are by definition personal protective devices over which we have exclusive control. Nobody can violate a boundary, because it is not theirs to enforce. The boundary says, “I no longer allow this.” Triggers don’t ask permission to knock on the boundary wall, though. They just arrive to be dealt with or succumbed to.

Sometimes, I can feel the cortisol in my blood like a sickness, like old alcohol or a bad drug coursing through my veins with velocity enough to burst. Movement is the only answer to this symptom – to adrenaline sickness, I sometimes call it. Dance, running, hauling ass up and over as many mountains as I can find in a day, literally setting stuff on fire and swirling it around my body (“firedancing,” I’m not an arsonist any more than I’m a doctor, geez people), any intense movement will do to leak out the stress chemicals.

Other times, I feel so heavy with apathetic loathing I can feel myself shrinking and withering. This shows on my face in deep creases between my brows, weighs on my shoulders to change my posture, shrinks my body to skin covered bones, turns my eyes inky black. This is “The Cave.” Depression is not sadness; in sadness, we care – we grieve, we love, we miss, we long. In depression, there is simply Dark Nothing that sounds like empty, voiceless screaming. It is the liminal space of regret dripping from hollow crags where feeling ought to be, dampening any remembrance of desire. One does not want to end up in The Cave, as it is entirely too easy to lose one’s way . . . and the fear of never getting out is as thick as the darkness itself.

I avoid The Cave, because I cannot move through it like the other sicknesses.

How? Primarily by recognizing the path that leads me there in the first place and then stepping away from it with gusto. It has taken me twenty years to identify the markers on the way to The Cave, but I have managed to compile some of my own warning signs here and in other writings: the “adrenaline sickness” itself is a warning that The Cave is looming on my horizon if I do not change course. Drastic changes in my sleep and dreams, changes in my eating desires and habits, self-isolation, weight loss, waning desire to engage in healthy habits, and considering or favoring destructive behaviors are all trail markers on the way to The Cave. I know it’s close when thoughts of suicide begin to scream, when I can’t close my eyes without vividly imagining my own death, when my internal narrative becomes aggressive TV static and high pitched self-hatred.

I need to know the trail markings. Knowing them saves me. Sometimes, the apathy monster is stronger than the adrenaline sickness, though, which requires an enormous burst of spiritual strength to change course.

Spirituality is my default setting, thankfully. God always comes to get me in the most literal sense –like the two times I drowned and was saved, or when I escaped the actual fire my mother started, or how the wife of my rapist showed up right before he penetrated me in that homeless shelter, or how the first reiki master I ever met was at that psych ward volunteering the day I self-admitted. Sunshine falling onto my face to dry my tears, the voice of Rumi or Mary Oliver seeping into the static, someone else who needs me more than I hate me . . . this, and other forms that “god” takes.

I’ve learned to grasp that golden thread like the lifeline it is, allowing it to light up any something I can hold onto, allowing myself to be held and seen by something I can neither touch nor define, until the part of me that is also god remembers itself and wants to live.

And all of this is enormously heavy and poetic and not at all a list of the hell of a lot of things I really do to stay just the sane side of crazy. I’m not entirely sane at all, or even a little, really. But I do do stuff – a lot of stuff – to keep myself out of hospitals and psychiatrist’s offices, and I will list that stuff now. Now that you, the reader, know that I really do know what it’s like inside The Cave. Ya know? You do know.

I wrote an entire book about coming to terms with “my darkness” and dismantling the wall I had built around my heart. In short, what it looked like was unpacking my trauma (again, clinical, not trendy) and intentionally healing it through various rites, rituals, and rigors. I did a lot of this while living on a tropical island, which was very nice.

Once I had wrapped myself around the idea of being a healed adult, I had to create a life that looked like one I imagined a healed adult would live. This takes considerably more work, and I . . . have a long way to go. *laughs in midlife crisis*

Drinking enough water – and only water is water, tea is not water, soda is not water, Gatorade is not water, coffee is not water – is the most underestimated and important thing I do on a daily basis to stay less crazy. When I don’t drink enough water, I am way less stable. Sometimes, I realize the filtered water I’ve been drinking doesn’t feel … watery? enough . . . and I splurge on expensive water and instantly feel better. I’m not a scientist but it works.

Healthy eating means ignoring everything the FDA has ever said and turning to farmers and medicine women, instead. High quality red meat and sweet potatoes are almost as euphoria-inducing as a giant marijuana bong hit, with longer lasting effects and zero mental fuzz. Cashews and pistachios are the mood-boosting equivalent of Prozac (that one is science for real). Freshly juiced fruits and veggies consumed within 15 minutes are basically orgasmic, and don’t even get me started on fresh ginger root to absolute excess. Add local honey and maple syrup and she’s a very happy girl.

Exercise used to be a dirty word to me, but with the discovery of yoga it became a daily drug, then habit, and now lifestyle. Combining movement with intentional breathwork and a truly devoted meditation practice has absolutely saved my life. I am home on my mat, in the curated silence of my mind or the rhythmic waves of my own chanting voice akin to the way that god herself feels when she wraps me in her grace. Weight lifting and cardio bursts are like mood and immune medicine, and my love of hiking/running mountains has transformed my self-perception and all-season enjoyment.

Sunshine is a form of god and must be purposefully basked in on a near-daily basis.

While I’d love to say I rely on close personal friendships and relationships in place of talk-therapy, and I can say that I do attempt to foster such outlets, it is also true that relying on the company of others has sent me spiraling into The Cave with equally destructive force as devastating loneliness. When friends and loved ones are available, I do confide and find comfort in them, but the fuller truth is that I primarily walk my path in solitude. This is something I deeply desire to change.

Supplements, such as THC/maryjane/cannabis/the pots, have been life rafts in turbulent waters. When I’m choosing not to use the aforementioned crutch, such as right now and anytime I plan to be a high achiever (pun definitely not intended), I need to amp up the “other stuff.” In the winter, when sunshine is scarce, I take the maximum daily dose of vitamin D (10,000 ieus). All year long, I take a multi-vitamin and eat an organic, non-GMO, minimally-processed diet rich in herbs, vitamins, and minerals. I have kava kava tincture on hand for severe anxiety attacks, though I tend not to use it liberally or for long periods of time.

Identifying and venting my thoughts is paramount to controlling the dangerous mental chatter that results in the mania or depression – we call this rewiring, mindfulness, positive self-talk, and many other things. What I do NOT do is spiritually bypass, blame others, blame shift, ignore my symptoms, pretend I’m fine, lie to myself (or anyone else), ignore triggers, stifle my need to express, lash out in anger, or self-sabotage. I own my shit and give it a window to escape. I take full responsibility for my thoughts, words, actions, and habits. I set boundaries that I can control and enforce them even when it hurts. I’ve gotten a lot better at this over time, with age and experience, and – honestly – after I stopped drinking any amount of alcohol.

Who I surround myself with matters, too. I choose not to engage in “situationships,” romantically or otherwise. I seek genuine, reciprocal, fulfilling and inspiring relationships and cultivate a sense of enthusiastic self-love. I don’t do casual sex, I don’t hang out with people who bum me out, and I don’t feel the need to contort myself to fit into societal boxes. I embrace my singlehood and have no expiration date on my personal worth, values, desires, or vision. In yoga, we call this brahmacharya, or conservation of life force energy, and it has helped me strengthen my own inner wellspring by not pouring into people incapable of, (or unwilling to) return my energy. Learning about divine sexuality has healed and empowered me to own my desires and keep safe my own longings. Ecstatic bliss or nothing at all for me, thanks. That being said – self-pleasure does matter and I notice a stark difference in symptoms (mental health and even physically around moon blood time) when I get lazy about expressing and enjoying my own sexuality.

A close friend recently said, “yeah but you do infinity things [to treat your mental health],” when I said I’m “unmedicated.” She’s right. I don’t use “medication” in the American form of the word, but I do do infinity things – a hell of a lot of things – to cultivate my own holistic health and stay as far away from The fucking Cave as possible.

If I do get stuck in The Cave someday? I have an emergency plan that those close and capable know, and it does not involve emergency rooms or psych wards. Instead, it involves more of the above, under the supervision of professionals who can keep me alive if I decide I’m not worth doing it for myself. May god always show up with her golden threads and keep me from that moment, though. In whatever form She takes.

“Fix your mind, fix your life” is something that was maybe true when the dimensional reality in which we’ve incarnated wasn’t recalibrating itself . . . there is something to be said, in another post on another day, about this time in place and the holographic hellscape we pretend is normal – and about how there is no way to not be crazy in a crazy world.

I’m no doctor and I’m not NOT crazy, but I am getting more and more surefooted the longer I stay off of my crutches, aware of and away from The cave, with my eyes turned toward the sun.

May this, and all my words, be of service. May all beings be safe. May we be joyful. May we be peaceful. May we be well.