My Gran used to call them “pity parties” to make fun of our human need to feel unabashedly pitiful every so often. Dane Cook talks about them in all their messy, redundant glory, pinpointing all the hideous, grotesque natures of them and our complete release of inhibitions during them. I’ve heard that we all do it and yet it’s something that happens only once biannually for me, something I never think to resort to even though it’s the one thing that can really make me feel both rejuvenated and exhausted when it’s all over.

The Great Cry was imminent.

Here I am. 36 hours into increasingly-melancholy sleeplessness and a strange hungerless starvation, days into abandoned hygiene, three-ish months into yet another battle with this stupid mental illness that just will not go away despite thousands of dollars in medication and doctor’s bills. The one-day pile of dishes in the sink is insurmountable, the daily “To Do” list is nothing short of impossible, the teething baby can’t seem to settle into a routine without wailing for constant attention. Every conversation is a massive undertaking, every action equivalent to hauling stones up an Egyptian Pyramid and the redundancy of this obnoxious mindset is enough to irritate anyone into insanity.

Still, though! I’m pushing forward! Valiantly! Getting out of bed! Bravely! Washing linens! Courageously! Caring for baby! Trying to make myself write essays for deadlines, make phone calls, respond to emails, help out an old friend, tidy up the house, mail letters, make grocery lists! Taking a shower! Nobly! Forcing food down my gullet! Fighting the good fight! Not letting my mind get down on myself! Yay, me, for beating back my stupid effing neuroses for one more day and doing what I needed to do to be functional like every other normal person in America can without extra effort!

Suddenly, It was upon me without any prelude or hint of warning. It was like the rug I personally crafted every morning in determination to face another day was suddenly yanked out from under me and I was crumpled on the floor, crying great, heaving sobs in unfiltered self-pity, exhaustion, and frustration.

I was shuddering in devastated agony, not just about the dishes or the laundry or even about my greasy hair or lack of sleep, either. I was sobbing about everything my mind could possibly manifest that has ever made me feel dilapidated, unsuccessful, and pitiful up to this point in my tiny, decent life. I cried about repressed personal issues I’d never stopped to explore my feelings about and stupid things I’ve delved into and cried about ad nauseum over years. I cried about times I’d royally screwed up everything and times I thought I’d screwed up everything that probably weren’t even a big deal to anyone else. I cried about how ill-equipped I feel to handle my daily life and I cried about how I have no idea what I’m going to do with my future as a whole. I cried because the clean clothes haven’t been put away and I cried because I don’t know what my purpose in the world really is. I cried because I want to be successful and then I cried because I’m often too terrified of various minor obstacles to let myself be successful. And then I cried because I felt so guilty for crying in the first place.

For about a half hour, I stopped putting on the happy face, stopped glossing over all my insecurities and outright fears, stopped fighting my underlying emotions, stopped making jokes, sat on the floor and let myself become a sniffling, helpless wreck. I really milked it, too. I kept feeding my mind all the pathetic, self-pitying notions I possibly could conjure until, gradually, the heaves became smaller and the tears slowed to occasional drips.

Finally, I helped myself to my feet, exhausted and still wiping drops from my puffy, blood-lined eyes. I brushed the wrinkles out of my clothes, took a single cleansing breath and was finished. There was no more energy for pity, no more interest in tears or doubt or nagging self-deprecation. The ever-present Critic in my mind was finally quiet. The frustrated lump that resides in my throat was somehow gone. I was suddenly buoyant with an unusual lightness, almost like I’d checked off that one giant task on my “To Do” list that I’d been putting off for ages. My mind was clear to think about being normal, functional and rational, my body wasn’t tied down to the racing thoughts of my overbearing subconscious. My body and mind were working together like a well-oiled machine for the first time in a long while, communicating between each other without getting tangled in the wire-trips of my fears.

Assuming that this specific episode is evident of the very worst my neuroses and memories and self-pitying/loathing can possibly make me feel, I realized that I had survived it without a single scratch or loss to my overall well-being. Which meant that even if I should encounter this level of insane, overwhelming, hysterical grief again, I would be able to embrace it in the knowledge that I’ll feel refreshed and cleansed afterward [instead of chronically terrible for the rest of my life, which I was somehow expecting.]

Makes me wonder what the hell I was fighting so hard to avoid feeling in the first place.

I’m not going to say I pwned depression or anything outlandishly brash, but I suddenly feel more equipped to handle the constant pressure of my oppressive neurotic thoughts, knowing that the worst self-inflicted feelings imaginable are all survivable. This massive wailfest doesn’t feel like a daily/weekly practice, of course, but more like a tremendous ritualistic release that I’m suddenly not so afraid of, should it crash over me again. It’s like having a secret antidote tucked into my arsenal for when shit really goes down. Actually, it seems like all the destructive power has been stripped away from those deeply-seeded subconscious mantras of mine now that I realize that they can’t really do anything worse than what I’ve already experienced firsthand. Wow, that’s liberating. I’m not saying I’m cured, but I’m definitely hitting a new level of optimism and not a moment too soon.

So, what I’m saying is: Bring on the Pain. I have another strategy to work with.
(Preferably after I blow-dry my hair, though. And take a nap.)

NOTE: I’m literally exhausted from the last few unbelievably mental-havoc-wreaked days, to be completely honest. I think it may be time to hermit myself away for a while and meditate quietly to myself for a change. If nothing else but to rest up for more of the same, although I’m planning on being more optimistic than that. (Depression makes for terrible blogging, I’ve noticed.)