Bummed Out

In 2019, I went to Pamela Des Barres writing workshop for the first time. It changed my life. I wrote a post about it on this blog. Then, the shit show that was 2020 happened. There was no writing workshop that year. Pamela did move her workshops to zoom, but I hadn’t managed to get to one. So when 2022 rolled around, and my friend Alina told me that Pamela would be holding her workshop at the end of September, I knew I would have to carve out time in my busy schedule to attend. I put it in my calendar months in advance to ensure I wouldn’t schedule myself to work that evening.

The Thursday rolled around, and I knew I had to be in Indianapolis at 8 a.m. the next day, meaning I’d have to wake up by at least 5 a.m. It didn’t matter. I showed up to write, and write I did.

The premise is simple: Pamela gives you a prompt and then you write for 12 minutes straight. When the time’s up, the group takes turns reading aloud what they wrote. Repeat x 3 and you’ve got yourself a little writing workshop.

One such prompt was “What’s been bumming you out?” As the words left Ms. Des Barres’ lips, I put my pen to paper fervently, writing against the clock. I couldn’t stop to think, for doing so would pull me out of the moment, the infinite moment where anything is possible. I entered a trance, and when the leader called out, “Time’s up, pens down,” I myself was surprised by what I had managed.

Sometimes, I get really bummed out. It’s like all the steam has run out. I skip the gym, eat like shit, forget to turn in that one assignment that’s due in 20 minutes. I let the dishes and clutter pile up. It’s like I give up on myself.

Things chug along so nicely. I get into the groove and start to feel good. Then, maybe I make one little slip up, and suddenly, the plug’s been pulled. I’m deflated. No longer do I have any energy for my responsibilities, let alone my desires. Depleted, defeated, simply bummed out.

It really bums me out that it doesn’t matter how good things are going. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got a good job, a good man, some good friends. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got a 4.0 GPA, started an editor position for the school’s journal, made great progress with my memoir, great progress in therapy. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been sober for three years and smoke-free for four.

None of it matters, because when that train loses steam, it runs me down and won’t let me back up. Each wheel that rushes over me represents all of the bad. Like how my dad’s dead, and my mom’s health means she could be before I’m thirty. Like how it doesn’t matter that my mom’s not dead because our relationship is. Or how mean I am to Josh when I get in these moods. The only person who’s ever truly loved me gets the brunt of it all.

He assures me I’m getting better. The “episodes” don’t last as long. He reminds me of all of my successes, with hope in his eyes. Even at my worst, he somehow sees the best in me.

But it bums me out, because it doesn’t matter.

I didn’t really know that I’d had so much negativity pent up inside me. I know I struggle with depression, sometimes more often than others, but this prompt really brought it all up. It’s true that in my darkest moments, it feels like nothing matters. None of the good can outweigh the massive burden that is my depression. My mind convinces me that I’m a fraud. Even in my success, I am not good enough.

As I read my words aloud, I caught sympathetic glances. Nods in my direction when I said something particularly relatable. At the end, polite applause.

Pamela said, “You’re really doing a lot of self-reflection tonight.”

“Always,” I replied. “It’s never ending.”

It’s been difficult for me to accept that I will have days where the depression is so strong it feels like a pit I cannot crawl out of. I get mad at myself for experiencing that profound emptiness. I convince myself that it is never-ending, that I will never be where I want to be in life. It seems a bit silly when I say it out loud. I mean, I would never talk to a friend experiencing depression that way. Yet, I am my own worst critic.

Life is a strange journey. Each new season brings with it a lesson I’ve got to learn. This season’s lesson is to simply give myself permission to feel things. To not shame or guilt myself when I am sad. Instead, I should comfort myself. I should face the parts of myself I deem unacceptable and well, accept them.

It’s quite true that my self-reflection is never ending. In one prompt, I compared it to unpeeling the world’s ugliest onion. As I reach depths I didn’t know were there, I am appalled by what’s contained within me. Yet, I look at it squarely. I assess it critically. I may cry and throw myself a bit of a pity party, but then I gather myself, wipe away the tears, and I choose to be better.