Writing Diaries #16: Crippling self-blame

I felt lived buried by depression and didn't know it

I reread the words I penned in a tiny notebook in the 1970s when I was in my twenties, and I feel sorry for the kid I found there. I thought I was at fault for failing at just about everything: as a daughter; as a student; as a friend; as the would-be girlfriend of a cute guy I knew.

Back then, I hoped to have a job I loved, a steady boyfriend if not a fiancé, a place of my own and more besides.

I blamed my shortcomings on something missing in me: no willpower; no

focus, laziness. It didn't occur to me to look for help to fix what I thought was broken because I didn't realize how worn down I'd become.

My priority was getting through each day: earning to help my mother pay our rent and put food on the table.

I’d fallen into a deep, airless, pitch-black hole of depression and didn’t know it. A good book, a laugh on the bus, a sunny afternoon gave a bit of respite. Then the dread returned.

I became used to living in a dark world. I didn't think beyond work next day and the next rent payment.

I'd lie awake until dawn rehearsing everything I'd done wrong.

I did have hopes and dreams not the strength to fight my way out of the pit.

 Excerpts from my February 1975 diary

It’s Saturday night and I’m alone with a cold. I feel listless.

I’ve given notice at my job at Marian Hall. I’m tapped out. Still, leaving is a wrench and I haven’t decided on a departure date. I lasted two years, the longest I've kept a job so far.

I’ve decided I lack discipline, the kind where you start something, work hard at it and finish it so you have something to show for your efforts.

I’m just vague. I have no head for details. Everything seems nebulous.

I want to write a story. So why don’t I? Because inside my head is a careless muddle. Besides, I have no tenacity. No drive.

Spent time with Dianne a few days ago. She went on and on about her exploits in Arizona. She's so needy. God, some people exhaust me. She suggested we think about sharing an apartment. No way!

If any of this sounds familiar, I hope you’ll hear what she couldn’t: you’re not broken beyond hope—you’re overwhelmed.

It took hard work and the help of a compassionate doctor to climb out of the blackness out into the fresh air.