The Problem With Feeling “Fine”
From someone who is probably not fine
I recently started seeing a new psychiatrist to help manage my medication. We ended up adding in a new medication to help with my increasing feelings of depression. She had me get some bloodwork done, too, and we discovered that my Vitamin D levels are horrifically low. To help with that I was also instructed to buy supplements at the grocery store, which I have now been taking daily for a few weeks now.
For a while after starting this new regime, things were almost good. I was feeling confident, I was feeling productive, I had more good mood days than bad. It could have been the warmer weather and the shining sun. It could have been that things are going pretty well at work. It could have been the Vitamin D supplements. I didn’t know, all I knew was that I felt really good for the first time in a while.
The good feeling lasted a mere two weeks and for the past six or seven days, I’ve been back down again. I’m not depressed, I’m just fine.
I’m fine. I’m not bad, I’m not good, I’m just fine. But when you’ve been suffering from major depressive disorder for the last six years the last thing you want to feel is fine. I would rather feel bad than fine.
Feeling bad and low is a comfort to me. I know what it feels like. I know how to take care of myself and my partner knows how to take care of me when I feel down.
Feeling good is new and unfamiliar, but welcoming. When I feel good, I want to do stuff. I want to tidy up the house, I want to do the dishes, I want to go to work, I want to get dressed; it’s almost like a boost to my self confidence and I feel good not only mentally, but I feel good about myself.
Feeling fine is not something I’m used to. I don’t know what to do with feeling mellow. I feel perfectly fine. While feeling great is also different, it’s more inviting than stability. I’ve spent more time going up and down and up and down than I have feeling okay.
When I feel fine, it feels like a test. Oh, I must not really be depressed because today I don’t feel impending doom. Oh, I must not really have an anxiety disorder because I could leave my house without my heart falling out of my stomach today.
I know logically that these two statements are ridiculous. Obviously I’m feeling better because the medicine that I’m on is helping balance out my mood and intrusive thoughts. But there’s still this nagging in the back of my head saying “you’re faking it. All of this is fake.”
Maybe it’s self sabotage. Maybe it’s my brain playing games with itself to try and get back to that familiar and comforting feeling of being sad.
Mental illness is a mountain; it’s a beast that I have to climb every day. Some days I get all the way up the cliff and am able to get to the other side comfortably, while other days I can barely make it four steps.
I’m trying to learn that any progress is just that: Progress. Every day is new and every moment I take to evaluate how I feel and challenge the negativity is progress and a step in the right direction.
