I work with high-functioning people. In their jobs, homes, and communities, they excel. And still, they get depressed, triggered, and lose hours to mental illness. My role as a counselor is partly that of a caretaker of mental health. Slowly but surely, over time, I recruit my clients into becoming caretakers of their own minds, too.
When one client started the session with, “Yep, I’m still depressed,” I sensed something. Like in Jurassic Park, when the Jeep is parked, the cup of water begins to ripple.
Sure, they were addicted to screen time. Sure, they wished they were doing other things. But there was also this subtle shrug attached to it all: Depression. As though depression itself was the problem, and if they waited long enough, it would eventually leave.
The problem, as I saw it — and told them — wasn’t depression exactly. Depression is the label we give a cluster of symptoms: rumination, low motivation, and hopelessness. Using addiction as an example, I explained that it’s the act of putting the needle in the arm that contributes to addiction, not addiction itself magically sustaining its own existence.
That distinction matters. We need to know where the bullseye is or we’re walking around blindfolded.
“I need to do things,” they told me.
“What things?” I asked.
They weren’t sure. So I made a visual line with my hands. On one side were actions that help manage depression. On the other hand, some behaviors contribute to it.
Watching TV for hours? Contributor.
Basic self-care and hygiene? Management.
Leaving the house? Management.
As we examined both sides, the imbalance became obvious. The contributors were high. The management strategies were low.
Onto something else.
Next to me is a cardboard box with an opening roughly the size of my laptop. Inside is a furry little critter that shuffled itself down our hallway while Evelyn and Dave looked up from their indoor picnic. Into the bathroom it went. Then it was caught in a takeout container with a lid snapped tightly on top.
The indents along the lower half of its body suggested the cats had already turned it into a chew toy, and releasing it outside would probably only speed up its meeting with the universe. So now it’s in a cardboard rehab suite: water, a slice of apple, a spear of carrot, alfalfa hay, bunny bedding, and a few pellets donated from our rabbit.
It’s tucked safely behind the glass shower doors in the guest bathroom. The last time I checked, it had buried itself in the bedding, which felt like major progress compared to earlier, when it stayed frozen in one spot so long I kept wondering if it was still breathing.
Rehabbing a mouse wasn’t on my agenda for the day. Oh well.
Love,
Jaclynn