Under Siege

Last updated on: October 1, 2014 at 12:09 pm by Cynthia Schrage

Under Siege 2014-10-01T12:09:48-04:00 Cynthia Schrage

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Did you ever have a blanket for as a kid?

My brother and I often did this. We had a child-sized card table and chairs and we draped it with all the blankets and afghans mom would let us confiscate. Then we’d bolster the whole thing with sofa cushions until I’m sure it looked more like an igloo than a fort. My brother would shoot the imaginary bad guys through tiny gaps in the blankets, and I’d try to imagine what the pioneers would do. Good times.

For me, the best kind of fort was the kind where the blankets and cushions combined to form walls so dense that light and sound were dimmed and muffled. A primitive kind of sensory deprivation chamber, if you will—though I had no idea of such a thing when I was a girl. Sometimes I would lie in there for hours. My mother would call me, like mothers do, when they became concerned about what their children might be getting into. I didn’t get into things, but she still called. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

My recent depression was a lot like that except, unlike a blanket fort, it was a completely involuntary experience. When depression hits, the blanket of numbness comes down over my head, and everything slows down. (I’ve written before how it’s like being in a tar pit.) My body feels almost as sluggish as my mind. My arms feel heavy and my legs like logs. I try to read, but often find myself looking at the same page for long periods at a time, uncertain as to where I left off. I reread whole chapters of books, knowing I’ve already spent time on this material, but having no idea what it was about. Day after day in bed with only myself for company leaves me alone to face the siege engines of negative self-talk and an unrelenting opposition force of unpleasant thoughts. I’m the last inhabitant of a castle meant for an army—trying to ward off a foe that just won’t stop coming. Bad times. Worse times.

Even though, by habit, I tend to surround myself with quiet (no television or radio—too distracting if I want to read, or write), that very solitude I enjoy during happier times is, when I’m depressed, like a pair of hands that chokes me until I black out. The only merciful times are sleep, but so often, sleep is elusive, a mist I can’t seem to catch.

So, even though I find it distasteful, I have to turn on the Pandora, or boot up Animal Planet. Having any kind of background noise is so helpful. Eventually, my mood may lift a bit, perhaps enough to shower or pick up the living room. A far better mood lifter is getting out of the house, if I can manager it. Years of training in customer service makes it almost impossible for me to do anything but smile at people. There’s always good people watching at the mall or in the children’s section of the main library.

Eventually, though, I have to give in. I hate asking for help, even if it will make me feel better. But I had to get new medications, and I certainly can’t prescribe them for myself. They are definitely taking a little while to start working, but I am very hopeful that this will be a good combination.

Desmond Tutu said that, “Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.

Even in a blanket fort.

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