A “Moody Gut” Often Accompanies Depression

May 23, 2019 at 02:04PM bp Magazine
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Bipolar Disorder May Be Linked to Parkinson’s Disease

May 23, 2019 at 01:47PM bp Magazine
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by Susan Reinhardt

Sometimes, to get to where you want (or need) to be, failure is unavoidable. But don’t let it discourage you from trying–failure is as much a part of life as succeeding.

 

Not long ago, I printed a meme and taped it to my computer screen. It seemed just the panacea to diffuse anxiety concerning the standstill I faced each day. These are the words that have summed up and defined my mental state of late:

“Don’t fear failure: fear being in the exact same place next year as you are today.”

For the past five years, since losing my full-time job as a columnist and journalist for a major newspaper group, I’ve felt as if I’m swimming in the same spot in one of those Hydropools. It’s as if I’m flapping my arms and kicking my legs yet going nowhere.

Immediately after the big layoff, I rebooted—slamming the pedal to 80 mph during the fevered months I researched and whipped through the first draft of my new novel. As soon as I started the rewrites, terror struck. What if I put years into this and no one offers a publishing contract?

Wasn’t it better to stall when others asked how my new novel was going? To just continue saying ad infinitum: “Almost finished. On my ninth draft right now.”

I read somewhere that Thomas Edison failed more than 1,000 times before getting the light bulb to work. When someone asked him why he failed so much during the process, he purportedly said: “I didn’t fail 1,000 times. The light bulb was an invention of 1,000 steps.”

Initial plans were to have my novel finished within a year. As of today, I’ve seen four Christmases, four birthdays and as many Fourth of Julys pass with little to no progress. So what happened?

I would hesitate to call it procrastination. Maybe a little, but the principal reason sprung from downright poltroonery: I was a big chicken that refused to peck my fears until they crumbled.

Since I was a child, I’ve been at war with my terror: atychiphobia—the fear of failure. I can remember trepidation and panic striking as early as first grade. The teacher promised a View-Master (a toy stereoscope) to the first student who read 100 books.

I read the books, won the contest, and took home my toy. The entire process left me riddled with anxiety, as if a bomb were ticking and I couldn’t read the books fast enough.

It’s human nature to set goals, so when we sit on our dreams and do nothing, we often become depressed and agitated.

For me, the solution is taking small steps to reduce the disquietude such fears set loose. I’m realizing failure is as much a part of life as succeeding. It’s rather like the law of averages. If you fail more, you’ll succeed more. And just because you fail a time or two or 1,000, this is in no way indicative of the status quo of one’s life.

A few months ago, I inhaled a round of deep yoga breaths and clicked on the computer to my novel-in-progress. I could feel my heart pounding and my anxiety, like a sorceress, was coaxing me to just give up. So much easier to avoid failure by not trying, my mind seemed to say. When in reality, real failure is just not trying.

Instead of giving in and running, I allowed the fear and experienced the ensuing emotions. So what if I write an entire chapter that’s worthless? I can pull a Thomas Edison and scrap it until I get it right.

I’ve begun to realize as I get older, that I fear regret much more than failure. So each day I sit at the keyboard and work on my novel. Some sessions are good, some not.

For me, the key is starting small and keeping the momentum. If fear strikes while I’m working towards my dreams, so be it. I know with certainty that if I don’t try, I’ll be in this exact same spot another year.

 

Printed as ” Viewpoint: Fear of Failure,” Spring 2019

via Esperanza – Hope To Cope
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by Margaret Lanning

A friend’s sudden, and unexplained, departure from your life can cause you to—unnecessarily—reevaluate your own self-worth.

 

Lola (not her real name) was my first friend in a strange new world. My husband and I had moved from the comforts of our North Carolinian home to the icy plains of Minnesota—she and her husband had done the same. Lola and I immediately found laughter and refuge in one another. We were both passionate about sharing God’s love through music, which is why we had uprooted ourselves and come to work at a mission organization far from family.

We became each other’s family. For 14 years, we laughed, cried, prayed, cared for one another’s children, and cooked for each other. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

I remember we were sipping lattes on her couch and talking about our complicated lives. Unfortunately, that day, I did most of the talking. I poured out my bruised heart, concerned about the heaviness of life and family problems. She shared her struggles as well. At the end of our “mom time,” we hugged, and I left.

Soon after, I began to wilt under my life’s stresses until I emotionally collapsed into a deep well of despair. I was limping through a dark place that made getting out from under the covers as difficult as climbing the Eiffel Tower. I was diagnosed with depression and began seeking treatment with medication and therapy.

But when I reached out to Lola, she had all but disappeared. No return phone calls, no emails, no visits. I was worried, fearful, aching, and my self-image lay in rubble at the foot of my bed.

When I finally connected with Lola, she said she needed time to process some things about our relationship. She would get in touch with me soon. I had no idea what she was referring to. Were there cracks in our relationship that I had not noticed? I begged her to tell me, but over time it became clear: she was not interested in giving me my day in court.

She wanted to be gone. So she was.

How could she just leave me? I would ask my therapist repeatedly. Why won’t she tell me what I’ve done wrong? My therapist pointed out that I was completely internalizing the fault for our relationship ending. She had me think about any inconsistencies in Lola’s personality or behavior that might help explain her abandonment.

She was like a sister to me, so I didn’t want to see her imperfections, but slowly, over time, I began to realize there was a pattern of Lola fleeing when the going got tough. She had been mostly missing during a serious injury that took me six weeks of healing, and there were absences around my each of my three babies’ births.

I started to wonder if Lola’s strong veneer was polished enough to hide some fear associated with others’ struggles and needs. If that were true, then it made a little more sense that she couldn’t handle my depression.

Still, I couldn’t help but blame myself for this friendship ending, one that meant the world to me. I started overthinking even childhood relationships and how I had negatively affected them. Thankfully, with the help of my husband who knew me back then, I was able to finally put the self-condemnation to rest after several years.

It has been 10 years since I experienced that deep depressive episode—and since Lola exited my life. A part of my heart still aches, but my head understands that though I most certainly contributed to our problems, Lola had issues and made decisions that had nothing to do with me. I realized that, like all relationships, this one had its flaws, and it had just run its course.

Because I have depression, I may always have moments where I question my value, no matter how I feel or what anyone else does. The bottom line, though, is that I am worthy of love, friendship, and faithfulness simply because I have a heart—bruised or not.

 

Printed as “Viewpoint: When Friendship Ends Unexpectedly,” Spring 2019

via Esperanza – Hope To Cope
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by Jay Boll

Opening up about anxiety’s “invisible” influence on your psyche can leave you feeling exposed and vulnerable–but it can also be a vital part of self-acceptance.

 

It is often said that depression, anxiety and other mental health challenges are “invisible” conditions. True. But so are most other health disorders. How would you know the stranger sitting next to you on the bus has diabetes or heart disease any more than if she had depression?

Invisible is invisible. So why the double standard for mental health

A few years ago, when I asked my GP if the heart palpitations I was experiencing could be caused by an anxiety disorder, she said “I don’t think so,” and offered a prescription to calm my racing heart. Clearly, I did not look like someone with anxiety. I seemed so relaxed and congenial. I have a family and a job, and function well in high-stress situations—how could I be struggling with a mental health condition?

The irony is that while mental health conditions remain invisible, many people think they know what they look like: the homeless person under the bridge talking to the voices in her head or the shut-in who is so depressed he literally can’t get out of bed. There is no shame in either of those situations. But they are not the only, or even the most typical, faces of mental health.

The other faces belong to people like me. I work and have a family, pay my taxes, and engage with my community. Many people are surprised, sometimes even dismissive, to discover that my life is seriously impacted by anxiety.

One of the strange things about my anxiety is how transparent it feels to me. I wish I could walk into any social situation, confident in the belief that my symptoms were invisible. It’s part of what makes me anxious—the irrational belief that people will be able to read my thoughts and know I have a problem. I worry they will see my “tells”—the way my jaw clenches when I enter a roomful of strangers or how my voice cracks when I’m stressed.

Most people I tell about my anxiety have an open mind about it. Some even say, “I have it too!” This is an indication of how far we have come as a society. But traces of the old negative attitudes and stereotypes remain.

For a long time, I wrote about mental health and worked in the field without ever sharing my own experiences. Feelings of shame and legitimate fears of discrimination made me glad my anxiety was “invisible.” But after a point, it felt wrong to be writing about other people’s mental health with never a word about my own. In hiding my anxiety from other people’s eyes, I was actually hiding a part of my true self.

I don’t feel I have to share all the details about my diagnoses. Those who are close to me know that I don’t like big social gatherings, that I hate going into stores, and that the thought of sitting in a waiting room without a book to read throws me into panic. All those things are tied to my anxiety. But they don’t define me anymore than the anxiety itself.

Opening up about my mental health leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. That’s the last thing I want with my anxiety. On the other hand, it has opened up new doors for me. It helps me to get out of my comfort zone and people are usually more accepting than I think they will be.

Being honest and open about my mental health is part of self-acceptance—accepting who I am and living with those parts of me. Between the feelings of avoidance and exposure, there’s a healthy balance. And if bringing visibility to my own struggles with mental health can help someone else, I’m grateful for the chance to share that light.

 

Printed as “Viewpoint: Becoming Visible,” Spring 2019

via Esperanza – Hope To Cope
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by Elizabeth Forbes

Mark Mallman believes in the power of music to uplift and revive your spirt, which is why he suggests making “happiness playlists” to boost your mood during troubling times.

 

Mark Mallman has solid rock music creds. So say the folks behind the Minnesota Music Awards, where he’s been honored for best rock-and-roll band and best rock record in the state. So say critics from USA Today to Wired. So say fans attracted by his notorious live performances, eight studio albums, and numerous US tours.

Still, Mallman’s no rock snob. When he’s settling down to work or heading out for a live show, jazz is his first choice. And when he’s going through a dark time, he’s not ashamed to queue up Whitney Houston’s pop classic “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)” or Pharrell Williams’ earworm “Happy.”

“When I had a cover band, I noticed a different use for music—a practical application of joy,” Mallman, 45, explains by phone from his Minneapolis duplex.

Sometimes, he points out, we just need music that inspires us to dance and sing along, helps us let loose or recharge, and gives us some uplift from the lyrics. Those are the basic criteria for what he calls his “Happiness Playlist.”

That’s also the title of his new memoir. The Happiness Playlist intrigues with episodic glimpses of the tight-knit Twin Cities music scene, Mallman’s bohemian lifestyle, his eccentric friends, and his idiosyncratic side projects—notably marathon performances of a single song. (Seventy-eight hours is his current record.)

Mostly, however, it’s a ride-along as Mallman picks through the landscape of grief and anxiety with his eclectic compilation of feel-good tunes for a soundtrack.

“I’ve been a musician my whole life. … Music was the thing I could lean on,” he says.

Mallman’s habit was to play upbeat songs to get psyched for the day or in the right frame of mind to write. (Apart from his own musical career, he’s a professional composer for film and television.) Now that became his exclusive listening diet: nothing in a minor key or with angsty lyrics allowed.

“I feel like songs can be a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he says. “I have a Velvet Underground song [“Rock and Roll”] on my list and “It was alright” is in the lyrics. When you’re worried about your job or money coming in and you have someone telling you it’s alright from your speakers, you need it.”

Searching

Mallman really needed his Happiness Playlist when his world went sideways in September 2014. He woke up in the wee hours one morning with The Anxiety Attack That Wouldn’t End: “The panic locked in and wouldn’t go away,” he recalls.

The initial disturbance came with his mother’s unexpected death in winter 2013. Numbness, exhaustion, and tears—natural to the state of grief—escalated over time to crying jags, nightmares, sleeplessness, and panic attacks.

He couldn’t bear to be alone. He was plagued by baseless worries about his health. He developed random phobias—for example, crossing a bridge could send his anxiety spiking. It was especially confusing for someone who had always been “chill,” as he puts it.

Although the intense episode eased after a couple months, Mallman’s symptoms and search for a remedy continued. He tweaked what went into and onto his body. He read. He saw medical specialists and psychotherapists.

“I never gave up, even when I wanted to,” he says. “I fought back with learning, practice, and faith that joy would return.”

It’s an attitude he absorbed while growing up in Wisconsin. He says his mother, who successfully skirmished with depression for 68 years, “was a survivor and a fighter. She taught me how to smile in the face of adversity—absurdity, even.”

More than that, depression did not define her: “She laughed. She sang. She was a joyful person.”

“It took me about a year to figure out, ‘OK, I have to quiet my mind,’” he says.

The little things

In The Happiness Playlist, Mallman aims to share a helpful tool that’s free, has nearly universal appeal, and, by its nature, will be personalized to the individual.

The “cheerful music” concept slots into a larger approach that might be visualized as a set of scales: Filling one pan with as much positivity as possible lightens the paralyzing influence of anxiety. Mallman’s mix includes embracing gratitude, finding more time for light-hearted pleasures, and paying attention to moments of beauty and “random joy.”

Mallman’s work in therapy, his breathing practice, and the strong support network he put together (his down-to-earth dad touches base daily) get only passing references in the narrative.

In conversation, Mallman mentions that a therapeutic technique known as systematic desensitization has been especially helpful for him. The idea is that repeated exposure to the very things that trigger anxiety may reduce the fear, or at least show that it can be endured.

It’s no picnic, Mallman admits, because “in order to overcome it, you need to experience it. … The funny thing is, the worst part ends up being the biggest teacher. For me, walking across bridges” —here he puffs out a “phew” sound to convey how hard that is for him. “But when I do it, it’s the best feeling.”

Mallman’s been willing to go with any suggestions—from friends, from books, from his therapist—that might contribute to healing. If something worked, he kept doing that. If it didn’t, he let it go.

“So many people have different experiences and different answers that it’s up to us to do trial and error,” notes Mallman. “For me, the answer was to stop looking for a single solution. Look for a lot of little solutions and they’ll all add up.

“So I do ‘square breathing’ and I’ll put some flowers in the house. I’ll go find a spice or food I like the smell of and breathe it in—my version of aromatherapy. Sitting on the porch for 10 minutes can reduce a bunch of rapid thinking. Prayer works, too.”

Fun first

With his anxiety under control, Mallman’s at work on a funk album and planning another summer tour. He’s also devoting a lot of time to his podcast Enjoy, which he describes as a sketchbook for comic skits and musical experiments.

“If I find myself with a heavy work day, I take time to do something fun first. I’m like, ‘I’ll do a rap about pizza for my podcast,’” he says with a laugh.

Much like a Happiness Playlist, it’s all about “lightheartedness and putting that out in the world. It’s fun, and it makes me feel good. … That’s when the light shines brightest, and happiness becomes a healer.”

 

*****

 

What works for Mark Mallman

Willful ignorance. Mallman acknowledges his anxious thoughts and feelings, but tries not to let his energy linger there. Instead, he consciously chooses to put his attention on something positive. He compares the practice to training a dog—rewarding good behavior to encourage more good behavior.

Don’t fight the feeling. On the other hand, Mallman has found that pretending upsetting emotions don’t exist doesn’t work. With grief, for example, “give it permission to exit your body. Cry as much as you need to. Allow it to happen. It’s just like anxiety for me. Fighting it only made it worse.”

Let your freak flag fly. In Mallman’s view, it’s essential to healing that you embrace yourself as the special snowflake you are. “If we accept there is no one like us, we can use our [coping] methods, no matter how weird.”

 

Printed as “Everyday Heroes: A Soundtrack for Joy,” Spring 2019

via Esperanza – Hope To Cope
(This and our other articles are provided by some of our curated resources. We encourage readers to support them and continue to look to these sources in times of need and opportunity.)