A Dervish With Depression?

I’m supposed to be working on a class.  Doesn’t even matter which one.  There are several which I really wanted to take and impulsively signed up for during this quarantined mess which is my life at the moment. But I can't focus lately. I read but never finish a book. Normally, I have a lot of projects on my plate. Right now, I have a ridiculous number of projects going on. I keep starting new things. 

 I have come to realize that I am dealing with a sort of high functioning depression. It's not so much because of the state of the world right now, although that sure isn't helping. It's more like the state of the world has revealed things to me about myself. I'm not crazy about some of the things I've seen but I'll give myself this; at least I'm finally looking. 

I realize that I've been dealing with it for a long time now. Most people who know me, would say, "No way. You're the last person we'd ever think is depressed." Frankly, it surprises me too. 

High functioning depression is a term I googled on a whim and thousands of hits came up and lo and behold, there I am.  For me, this depression manifests itself differently than what we typically see depression as.  I not only get out of bed everyday and go to work at three different jobs (when such things are possible), I overachieve.  I write blog posts and poetry and articles and books.  I read.  I take classes.  I learn new things. I try new things. I consume learning like oxygen.  I start projects like a young writer’s group at the library and pet food pantries and clothing swaps. I volunteer.  I teach. I pay the bills and take care of my family and friends. 

Friends say things like, “You do so much, it’s amazing.” and “How do you even have time to do all this stuff?”

I live life in perpetual motion, whirling like a dervish.  I am stubborn and believe I can accomplish anything through sheer force of will.  Go ahead, tell me I can’t.  Sometimes, this serves me well.  I’ve accomplished some amazing stuff of which I’m really proud.  

But despite yoga, meditation and a decent dose of self-awareness, I’ve become really great at doing but not so good at just being.  For years, I've answered, "how was your weekend?" with a list of stuff I accomplished.  And no matter how much I do, I'm always still just a little bit disappointed that I didn't do more. If I can just stay busy enough, I can outrun any darkness. 

The virus has left me unemployed and basically stuck in the house except for weekly trips for groceries or prescriptions. All my usual coping skills are unavailable to me. I can't work or hang out with friends. I can't volunteer. The list of projects I've accomplished during quarantine is both exhaustive and exhausting. But it's not enough.  Somehow, my brain has managed to attach worthiness to productivity. 

It started innocently enough. After my daughter died in 2008, I battled an extended period of crippling anxiety. We're talking years. Finally, I decided that the only way to manage this anxiety was to just start doing things. And do things I did. 

Big accomplishments got crossed off my bucket list and other goals took their place to in turn be crossed off. This doing of things that scared me (and at the height of anxiety, everything scared me) was therapeutic. It was healing. It may have even saved my life. 

But I'm not sure it's serving me anymore. There's a lot going on right now, much of it unrelated to the virus. The virus has just brought out the worst in me in some ways. Busyness has become a way to not deal with certain things. Like a five year old who covers her eyes and says, "Nah, nah, nah, I'm not looking." 

I'm not saying I want to become a couch potato. A lot of things really do interest me and I have no intention of giving them up. I can still be a whirling dervish but I need to be mindful of how fast I spin. And more importantly, why.