Executive Function
Not "Executive, function!"
The Cleveland Clinic’s definition of “executive function” begins:
Executive function refers to mental processes (executive functioning skills) that help you set and carry out goals. You use these skills to solve problems, make plans and manage emotions.
The first sign of depression is my executive function goes out the window. I’m left with a blank brain. I’m capable of staring at the walls and not much else. I can sometimes distract myself with streaming something on HBO or Netflix, but because I have so little interest in anything, even that can be above my pay grade.
There is no fear like the fear of losing my mind. When executive function goes, it’s terrifying.
I read Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar when I was eleven years old. It was a revelation to discover what was wrong with me, and that there were other people with the same problem. By the time I’d read it, I’d been dealing with depression for two years.
It was the image of the bell jar that resonated. Depression is something which descends and encloses, making me separate from the rest of you.
Today I wouldn’t describe it exactly like a bell jar. For me it’s a fog which descends and envelopes.
I’ve heard about brain fog a lot since the Covid-19 pandemic, as it’s something associated with the virus.
Depression is much like a virus. Because it’s not just the external bell jar or the external fog which separates me. It is the miasma that seeps through my skin and into my brain and heart, divorcing me from myself.
I don’t know myself anymore. I can’t access me, what I want, what I love. I’m poisoned, as if bitten by a rattlesnake, the venom of apathy attacking my nervous system.
I tried writing yesterday. The first sentence was,
I want nothing.
Nothing interests me, thrills me, or is meaningful. I’m an organism with air going in and out of my lungs. I have the mental capacity of a slug.
Well, there is the terror. I do feel terror, so I’m a terrified slug. The fear comes from wondering if I’m going to get better in time. It starts in the throat and descends like a cord. It winds around the heart in a tight knot before traveling to the gut.
Lately, I remind myself that I haven’t been depressed like this in over thirty years. It only returned in the past year. I had a terrible bout of it in the spring, then recovered.
It’s back.
What scares me most is that I can’t write. I have a suspicion my ability to write is why I’m still alive, so if that goes, what then?
I wrote an essay last Sunday, because I write two extra per month for paid subscribers. It was a grueling experience. Every sentence was like pulling teeth, and I panicked nothing made sense.
Before the depression, I was full of ideas. I had plenty to write about and always would.
Lately nothing engages me. If I get an idea, I get about two paragraphs in before I lose interest.
The great thing about being an essayist is I’ve learned to keep going no matter what. And in a recent text exchange with a good friend, she reminded me what we learned in scene study class:
Feelings have nothing to do with the price of rice. It’s action which is important. We keep doing the action despite the feelings.
This was an enormous help.
Open the laptop. Put my fingers on the keys. Tap out the first sentence, it doesn’t matter if it’s good. Tap out the next sentence.
Lean into the action. Or, as Fred Franklin would say,
“Work will save you.”
Writing provides a purpose. Humans need purpose.
I got through Sunday’s essay.
But I had nothing for today because my executive function is gone.
I’m aware there are plenty of topical issues that would ordinarily hold my attention. Congress back in session, Epstein emails indicating Trump knew exactly what was going on, two separate documentaries I’ve watched, Andrew formerly known as Prince and again known as Duke.
I look at articles and say yes, this should interest me. But it doesn’t.
I don’t have the energy to pretend. I am lost in gray.
Then, a thought: what if I wrote about depression? I’m experiencing it, at least I could report on it.
I can access depression. I’ll write about that.
Apparently, I have enough executive function left to sound an alarm: writing about depression is a bad idea.
A weak argument develops between self-preservation and ego.
The ego will not hear of taking a week off. I have no problem letting myself down, but I’ll be damned if I let down any reader of mine, particularly the ones who part with their hard-earned money to support the work.
The self-preservation side protests that it isn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, because I certainly do not need to feel more vulnerable. Furthermore, if I’m honest about how I experience it, I can only alienate more people.
The ego wins. The bookies don’t care; the odds were .05/1.
Admitting to Depression, 101
Problem #1
People grow Concerned, Capital C.
I have an aversion to concern, and besides, all the concern in the world cannot save me.
I can already hear the chorus of,
“But I can help you, I want to help.”
Thank you for wanting to help. You cannot.
Now I’ll contradict myself. Maybe you can help, but if you do, it’ll be an accident. It will be because we’re having a normal conversation, not a conversation about how to help.
For instance, my friend who reminded me about actions over feelings gave me a life preserver without realizing it.
But if you come at me with concern on your face? No. The minute I see it, I’ll clam up.
Problem #2
What’s wrong, or why?
When I finally admit I’m depressed, the last thing on earth I want to hear is,
“Why? What’s wrong?”
When my mother died, I’d cry every now and then. I was experiencing something called grief.
When I’m worried about money, which is a huge trigger, I know why I’m uncomfortable—I despise being broke. It’s called worry.
When Secret Service and I aren’t communicating well and I’m wondering why on earth two people as different as we ever got married, I know what it is. Frustration.
I don’t know why I get depressed. If I knew, it would be something I could name.
What’s wrong? Please do not give me a pop quiz which I have a 100% chance of failing. Depression is nebulous by nature. If I could define it, I wouldn’t have it.
Here’s the part where I have to step in and say yes, I know you were only trying to help.
Which is exhausting.
Problem # 3
Boo-Boo Face.
Yesterday I went to the doctor and admitted I was depressed, in fact so depressed, I was willing to try a different medication.
This is huge, because like most people with a disorder, we are the last ones on earth who want to take medication.
It seems a good time to mention that depression feels very much like personal failure, and taking medication is proof I’ve failed. I failed to snap out of it, cheer myself up, express gratitude. I failed ethically because it’s obvious I am mired in self-pity, which makes me hate myself, because my aversion to self-pity is similar to my aversion to concern.
But here we are. I have failed. I realize it’s dangerous not to admit how bad it is. I tell my doctor.
Like most well-intentioned people who’ve never experienced a severe depression, she said this old chestnut: I should exercise, take a walk outside; exercise is the best anti-depressant in the world.
She’s not wrong. And when I’m not badly depressed, I walk outside as much as possible, because it staves off the blues.
The only part I’d argue is that given a choice between exercising and being outdoors, I’d choose being outdoors every time.
Here’s the problem: I can’t get outside. As in, I do not have the will to put on my shoes and walk out the door when I’m like this. I’d love to get outdoors, I’d love to take a walk, I’m all for it.
I cannot. I cannot move.
“It’s like being a ball of cement,” I tell her. Forget the bell jar, depression is the cement shoe.
And what did she do?
She did Boo-Boo Face.
Christ on a cracker. I like my doctor, but I do not like Boo-Boo Face.
If you have depression and have spoken to anyone about it, you know this face. It’s the same one someone gives you when your dog dies.
There’s that sympathetic sound, then I’m sorry in a register higher than their normal speaking voice, followed by the upside-down smile thing where they crinkle their eyes and lift up their lower lip.
Like I’ve got a boo-boo.
If you find yourself reading this and realize you’re guilty of giving someone Boo-Boo Face, I forgive you. You are absolved. I know you’re just trying to be sympathetic.
But please stop. The Boo-Boo is Banned-Banned.
The problem with all of it—the whys, the concern, the faces—is that I do not want sympathy. It’s the very last thing I need.
I don’t want people to be sorry. I don’t want people to worry. I don’t want to worry you’re going to call Secret Service asking how I am.
When people are sorry or worried, I feel I’ve delivered a burden to them. I feel responsible for taking away their burden, and believe you me, I don’t have the energy to make anyone feel better.
Worry over my condition is useless. There’s nothing anyone can do.
It’s easier to be quiet. Then you and I are both spared the trouble.
Writing about what I don’t want from people has made me curious about what I would like from them. Is there a helpful response?
I think the answer may be curiosity.
For instance, if I told a friend I was depressed, and they replied,
“Huh. How do you experience depression? What’s it like?”
I think I’d welcome those questions. Instead of it being a conversation about fixing it, it’s a conversation about what it is.
When I have depression, it feels like I am depression.
I’m not. I’m not this condition. But because it robs so much of my mind, it feels like I’m a depressed person, end of story, period at end of the sentence.
Discussing the symptoms makes it more of an invader and me less of a failure. Maybe if people were curious, I’d feel more like a human being and less like a human failing.
Maybe I’m wrong and there are ways to help.
I feel like the biggest control freak on earth, but I’m just trying to imagine proffered help that wouldn’t shut me down. Maybe,
“I know you’ve mentioned before that walking helps. Would it be helpful to walk together? I have time tomorrow at nine. I promise we don’t have to talk about depression or anything else.”
Or,
“There’s a very stupid movie playing we can go see tomorrow afternoon. I could pick you up if you want.”
To further my control freak instructions, I’d suggest a few things. If I say no, please don’t pressure me. If I can only walk ten minutes because the sun is too bright and I can’t stand that much light, don’t try to goad me into walking more.
I think what I’m looking for here is acceptance.
Yes, the unwelcome visitor has arrived. No, it doesn’t define me. Yes, we still want to be in your company, even if you have to drag said visitor around with us.
No, we won’t talk about the visitor. It’s rude to gossip.
Yes, you are still human, even though you don’t feel like it right now.
A couple of years ago, there was a meme going around social media. It had Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet and Eeyore together.
The text of it was something like Pooh and Piglet never tried to cheer up Eeyore. They just accepted him as is and took him with them around the Hundred Acre Wood.
Eeyore and I like believing we are okay as is.
What I’d like less of is,
“Executive, function!”
It’s the demand to feel better I’m trying to avoid.
The medication was a bust. The one thing I was willing to take interacted with something else.
I promised the doctor I’d come up with a plan with my therapist. I had an extra appointment scheduled for today.
I was well into the essay when I logged on to Zoom to see my therapist. I said,
“It’s back. The depression.”
She replied,
“Yes. Tell me.”
No apology, no judgment, and not a boo-boo in sight. Now if only I could learn not to judge myself.
As Marge said, give yourself some slack. Churchill called his depression "The Black Dog." He insisted it not follow him like a stalker, or get in front of him; he made that dog walk by his side!!!
Thank you, Elizabeth. I can relate. It's very brave to write about depression, partially, because many people treat it as a character defect or a weakness in one's personality. Like I don't alerady feel ashamed. I don't need more shame, nor do I need to be reminded of all the sterling aspects of my character. Or compared to the people who REALLY have something to be depressed about - the equivalent of "If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about." I love the expression, Boo Boo Face, as in Bye Bye Boo Boo. While depression can affect those close to us, it is NOT contagious, Boo Boo's. There is so much to say, you would think I'd be writing my own essay about it. Maybe I will sometime, inspired by your courage.