Depression in the Deep End

When daily functions are no longer an option, reaching up and out seems more demanding than ever.

DEEP END

Looking at this image, you may think a woman with beautiful acrobatic control is peacefully gliding through the open expanse underwater.

I see the darkness around her, swallowing her from the bottom up. I see her lifeless body no longer reaching above but surrendering and sinking. Her breaths are forced while function dwindles. Ripples of movement above and light’s rays pointed directly on the target to identify as she sinks deeper.

There is only one image above. Correct?

When you enter a pool with a slope approaching the deep end or out to sea, your next step may slip off the ledge into a depth you can’t feel or see. Do you instantly tread water or release into the pull below?

Anyone that’s dealt with depression can have drastically different feelings in the depths or similar ones that echo the disconnection and weight of their trials to accept, absorb, push through, and overcome.

I don’t know why I identify with being underwater or sinking in a pool or large body of water. I know how to swim, have taken more instruction to improve my technique, and have participated in triathlons. I take water safety with the most serious degree of concern. Maybe because I’ve seen too many little ones accidentally fall in a pool or even athletes have health emergencies while swimming when I worked at the YMCA.

When thoughts, events, doubts, stagnancy, or loss overwhelm me, I don’t always catch myself quick enough before my whole body has gone under. I can imagine all this lying in my bed or even going about my day on auto-pilot. I can see myself sitting under the water. I can hear commotion affecting the speed and strength of the waves. Sounds are muffled with no form or structure and float in swirls around me with no message in their attempted delivery. My eyes open and stare at figures above me, but my sight only reaches within my grasp.

No one is in the water with me. I’m content with others safely above. It’s calming for a while, then markedly frightening.

The deafening silence without familiar voices is so profound I have to hold my ears and cover them tightly.

It isn’t the wanting to be down here that I crave but to remember my lessons, repeat my strokes, and hold my breath while being assured I know when to breathe. Even fighting for that last breath.

Look for the bubbles.

Sometimes my breathing picks up, and I can see the water draining low enough to engage with those on the shore, at the pool’s edge, or see the time clock perched at the edge of the lanes.

It’s okay to take time to make sure your lungs don’t take in water. It takes time to filter the saved messages or stagnant thoughts, sometimes best filed away for opening another day on dry land. Believe oxygen is continually delivered to your beating heart.

Some days it’s back to the basics.

~ Don’t be afraid to ask for instruction. Relearn your strokes. Practice. Repeat. Practice. Repeat.

~ The time clock won’t stop while you are choosing to learn. You aren’t in a race with someone else’s recovery.

~ Form a team. Train together. Encourage each other. Seek out others who have sat in the deep end and now swim long distances in the open water. Coaches, counselors, teachers, and groups have elements of support to build the foundation for your mental safety program.

~ Remember the rays of light, currents, and motion above. Your fans cheering you on and filling the crowd with family and friends may not always know when to jump in the water or throw the floatation. Strain if you have to because you can honestly find them.

Grab your water wings and join me in staying afloat in the meantime.

My impassioned plea is to those in the deep end and those looking below, don’t miss the bubbles.

Thank you for staying around till the story’s end. Hoping you celebrate each day you practice and choose to swim above the weight of the water pulling you down. May you have endless bubble wands feeding the air around you with delightful fun instead of counting the last ones dark below.

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