Depression for Introverts: A How Not To Guide

There are lots of things to love about being introverted. You gain an appreciation for silence. You know the comforts of being on your own, and the independence that brings. Time spent snuggled up with fuzzy socks, a cup of tea, and a good book is treasured. A cozy night in with your cat will always win out over a night of drinks and dancing in the city.

But when you have depression, being an introvert causes a lot of issues. In my experience, the best way to cope with depression is to spend time around other people and to be active. It’s a lot harder to drown in feelings of worthlessness and abandonment when you are surrounded by loved ones. And in theory,it should give you something to look forward to. My problem is that being social often feels like more stress than it’s worth. When you’re depressed, all you want to do is recharge your permanently drained batteries in the comfort of your room. Going out is work. It feels like putting on a show because it’s far, far easier to pretend everything is fine and not ruin everyone else’s night out rather than talk about how hard it was to take a shower that day. And besides, why would they give two shits about how you’re feeling? You don’t really matter, and nothing makes you feel that more intensely than seeing your friends laugh and smile with each other while you sit there, absently stirring your poorly mixed cocktail. They don’t need you.

It’s incredible that being around other people can leave you feeling even more alone than if you’d just stayed in to begin with. But when you cancel on friends, you feel like a failure for not being able to shake the anxiety and depression off long enough to get out of the house and do something. It’s a precarious tightrope walk that I wish I never had to take. I thought medication would make it better; for awhile, it did make a real difference. But now I’ve settled into a new normal which is still not happiness. I feel the same listlessness I first felt when I was in seventh grade and first started experiencing the beginnings of anxiety and depression.

I don’t remember what it was like to not have depression anymore.Naturally, I’m still happy sometimes, and I’m able to have fun with my friends and family, but it never lasts. I’m told that’s just part of being human, but I can’t accept that I’m supposed to spend 90% of my life deeply unsatisfied, unmotivated, and exhausted. What the hell is the point of living if that’s all life is? People tell me how strong I am, and that I have so much to give. I’ve had people tell me the way I deal with my depression is inspirational. I don’t feel like an inspiration. I just feel tired.

I always said I wanted to inspire people, and help people, and change lives. I never considered that in helping other people I was avoiding helping myself. I haven’t done my laundry in a month. I do the bare minimum to keep myself presentable for work. I cut and dye my hair when I feel emotionally vulnerable so I can pretend I’m in control. I just want to feel like I have a reason to get up in the morning.

All my love,

Katherine Wheel

Suomi Dreams

Even now, at age 24, I dream of happily ever after. I dream of a 3-bedroom house with a modest yard. I dream of little blue-eyed children gazing back at me, still convinced that Mommy has all the answers.

I don’t have the answers. As it turns out, neither does my mother, or her mother. Frankly, I’d like to know who has all the answers. Why do I come from a family with a longstanding background of mental illness and substance abuse? Why do I fall for men cut from that same cloth?

I think that’s why I hold so tightly to my fairytale life, and the fantasy world in my head. It lets me escape from the painful reality of my past and the difficult decisions I must make every day. Fantasy gives me hope for the future. Understandably, I feel mentally stunted. The ways in which I love have changed so little since I was 14. I love furiously, passionately, completely. Love consumes me so much that I often wonder if all women feel this way.

I’m finally going to experience a long-held fantasy of mine next week: I’m going to see HIM for their farewell tour. HIM is and was a band I’ve romanticized for years. A band that created Love Metal. A band fronted by a man who has turned all of his sorrows into something beautiful and healing. Ville Valo is the kind of creator I️ aspire to be. Because of him, his bandmates, and the legacy they’ve built I want to live in their native country of Finland, if only for a little while. There is nothing that brings me the same mental peace as envisioning breathing in the brisk Helsinki air and being free to write and create.

It sounds outlandish, I imagine. It probably is. But I’m holding on to Finland.

All my love,

Katherine Wheel

Nightmare Anatomy

I had a nightmare last night; I dreamed I was getting married to my (ex) boyfriend at a large, but humble church wedding in front of dozens of guests, including an old flame from college whom I credit with bringing out my anxiety and agoraphobia full-force. I was over the moon that it was finally happening. I flew to the altar so I could stand beside my soulmate. My eyes brimmed with joyful tears as the service began. And then, he abruptly left to smoke a cigarette while I stood there dumbfounded and ashamed. I chased after him, only to watch him be shot to death before I could reach him.

I think this is my brain’s way of dealing with my fear of dying alone save for my cat and some potted plants. Every day I see women my age, and some even younger, getting engaged and married and pregnant and giving birth, while meanwhile what I had hoped would be my last relationship for the rest of my life crumbled no matter how hard I tried to hold onto it.

When I ended things, he told me I was “giving up” because I expected a faerietale ending where we would never fight, and we’d live happily ever after. All I wanted, for lack of better words, was normalcy. We abused alcohol and drugs and each other until I accepted it was not going to get better. Sometimes, no amount of love can make a relationship work.

Even though I know I made the right decision, in my own time, I still feel like a failure. Failure lies at the root of all of my nightmares. If I started a dream journal (and I might), I’m sure at least half of them would be work related. I have dreams where my headset stops working or I can’t get my computer to work while I have a claimant on the phone constantly. Even better, I still have nightmares about when I worked at Five Below of a similar nature, and I haven’t worked there since 2015.  You’d think maybe that taking anti-anxiety medication before bed would alleviate some of my constant fear of fucking up, but it’s done very little. Even after seeing statistics telling me I am one of the highest performers both in my company and on my team at the office, I still panic.  I had chest pains every day for a week in December and it took concentrated breathing exercises when I feel the first twinge of pain to keep them in check.

I wish I was a calm, confident person who wasn’t afraid of being an unlovable failure. And I’m hoping someday I can get there. But for now, I need to learn how to live with these nightmares and figure out what they’re trying to tell me.

All my love,

Katherine Wheel

Back in the swing of things

Nice to see you again, my few but much loved readers! I’m sorry for my absence; at this point I’m sure this has become expected, but I still apologize for the length of my inactivity. Life got ahead of me, and now it’s suddenly August. Where did the year go?

If you spoke to me a year ago and told me that I would be where I am now, I would have laughed in your face.

I’m just starting my second week of training as a client advocate for those applying for Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI). I have an ID badge, my own personal headset for the phones, and in five more weeks, my very own cubicle. Of all the careers I dreamed I would fall into, I never thought I would be working in a traditional office, in a full-time nine-to-five position. For all the shit my brothers give me when I brag about the satisfaction in the regularity and when I whine about having to completely flip-flop my sleep patterns, I can’t help but think they’re jealous. I make a living wage, and I get to make the world a better place; I can’t think of much else one could want out of a job. One 0f the hardest things to accept about adulthood, but also one of the most validating, is the realization that ninety-nine percent of us are not going to have that “dream job”. As a good friend of mine said to me recently, you use that satisfying job to fund your dream life. That’s where I’m at right now. For the first time in months I can actually afford to do things and treat myself.  My entire paycheck will not go directly to paying credit card bills. It’s a wonderful feeling.

And since I’m actually motivated for a change, here’s a ukelele cover! I haven’t significantly improved recently but I was in the mood to sing for y’all today. Enjoy 🙂


All my love,
Katherine Wheel

Bumbling through body image

ATTENTION READERS: This post includes references to disordered eating (binge and starvation). Continue at your discretion- KW.

I still remember the first time I looked at myself, pinched my belly, and proclaimed, “I want to get rid of my fat”. How I came to this conclusion, I’m not quite sure. Maybe it’s because I don’t remember a time when my stomach was completely flat, or maybe it’s because I knew women were supposed to be unhappy with their bodies. But the bottom line was, I felt fat. I was six years old.

A photograph of me around that time.

“It’s just baby fat, honey. It will go away when you get older,” said the YMCA staffer I had shared my discovery with. Her heart was in the right place, but it didn’t get to the heart of the problem: I was afraid of being “fat”. At an age where everyone was telling me I had infinite potential and could be anything I set my mind upon, the strongest message I got was that I never, ever wanted to be fat. I hated the way my thighs splayed out like pancakes when I sat on the edge of a pool, and the way my stomach rolled together like a torpedo roll. I wanted to be thinner and prettier and fit into that perfect package deal of a girl that I never could quite figure out.

Fast forward to my freshman year of high school. I was one of the unfortunate students who was scheduled for the last lunch period, meaning I was making it through almost three-fourths of the school day without having a chance to eat. I was voraciously hungry by the time lunch rolled around and I  hated the gnawing feeling in my gut. That’s when I started taking the time to have “breakfast”. I would drink a chocolate meal-replacement shake on my way to school so that I wouldn’t be dying of hunger during my math class. There were some not-so-nice side effects to the shake, namely intense nausea and cramping for roughly twenty minutes in the middle of the day, but once I powered through that I was no longer hungry. After a few weeks of this, I stopped buying lunch. My stomach shrank and soon I was unable to finish my dinner because I was so full. But that godforsaken chubby stomach didn’t go away. Add onto this the development of wider hips that comes with puberty and I felt huge. Even though I was barely bigger than a size seven in juniors, I felt massive. I purchased a pair of size eleven pants because they “fit”.

An elusive full-body shot of me at fourteen.

I didn’t realize anything was wrong until people started expressing concern. I felt fine; I wasn’t hungry, and I sure wasn’t a skeleton. I thought you had to look emaciated to others and gigantic in the mirror to experience disordered eating. Maybe it’s that way for some people, but my experience was far more insidious. Nothing seemed wrong on the surface unless you were there to watch me (not) eat. Truth be told, I probably would have kept it up indefinitely if not for my school chorus’ trip to Disney World. I needed to be well-nourished and hydrated to be out and about in the parks all day; the issue was that we were handed some money and told to spend it on our lunch each day.  Naturally, a fourteen year old at a theme park isn’t going to want to waste perfectly good money on food, especially if she doesn’t feel hungry. So I let myself get fatigued and irritable until finally I ran into my mom (a chaperone on the trip and a fellow Disney addict) and she got me a frozen chocolate dipped banana to eat. All it took was one banana and suddenly I realized how hungry I had really been for months. I was eating full meals again.

I had some issues with binging for a a few months after that trip, but there was not a tremendous amount of weight gain to go along with it so I don’t think anyone ever knew there was a problem. A package of twelve breakfast sandwiches would disappear in one sitting and as guilty as it made me feel, I didn’t stop. The food was warm and it left me feeling pleasantly full. I started to get things more under control after the initial shock to my body of actually eating had subsided. I substituted tea for excessive snacks because it gave me the same feeling without being an unhealthy choice. And that was more or less the end of my disordered eating.

Summer of my freshman year of college.


Fall of my senior year of college.

In college, I experienced a lot of weight fluctuation, but with it came a lot of acceptance about the body type that I was born with. I started out with terrible eating habits and a very inactive lifestyle and pushed myself towards more balanced meal choices and regular exercise. What happened surprised me: I started seeing how beautiful my body has always been. No matter how active or inactive I’ve been, I have had my soft, round tummy and my chunky cellulite thighs. I’ve also had a slender waist this whole time, and a really cute nose, thanks for noticing. Everyone’s body is different. Everyone’s version of healthy is different. I know these words don’t mean much coming from someone who has never been actively berated for her size, but I truly believe that all bodies are beautiful just as God made them. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

All my love,
Katherine Wheel

The writer is blocked.

Anyone who says writers have an easy job has clearly never tried to write something substantial or of quality. Writing is sitting in the same spot for three or four or five hours, only pausing for bathroom breaks. Writing is typing out sentence after sentence only to delete them all and start over again. Writing is a jousting match with that little voice in your head that says, “You’re terrible at this. Give up already!”. But don’t get me wrong, writing is 100 percent worth the struggle. On a good day with a clear mind, it’s the truest form of expression there is.

Full disclosure: when I decided to major in writing, I thought it would be easy. I was accepted to my dream school but not my dream major, so I had to settle on something else. Writing was the natural choice; I’ve been writing for as long as I could hold a pencil. Dreaming up new worlds and bringing them to life on the page was my favorite pastime. For this reason, I loved when we had opportunities to write fiction in English class throughout the years. I even took a creative writing course in high school where I explored poetry as a serious medium for the first time. With all of this in mind, I had never seriously committed myself to the craft. I was a stronger writer than many of my fellow classmates, so it never seemed necessary.

And then my first collegiate writer’s block came.  With assignments due every two to four weeks piling up, I was running out of ideas and running out of steam. Panic set in and it felt like I would never be able to get things done. I talked to anyone who would listen, searching for writing prompts, ideas to explore, and characters to play with. I delved into my craft, taking older ideas and reworking them using new techniques. I fought through those creative blockages because there was no other option. “I had writer’s block” isn’t going to get you an extension on a ten page story.

So why does writer’s block feel like such an insurmountable challenge now? It’s true that there are no serious consequences to me throwing in the towel and quitting this website before it’s really begun. I’m debating installing one of those writing apps that blocks all other programs on your computer as a way to force myself to focus. Barring that, I might just have to go back to basics and write things out by hand. I’ve always focused better that way. Regardless, I’m not giving up on this.

All my love,

Katherine Wheel

Lowering expectations

Here’s something I’m getting really tired of hearing in my post-grad life: “lower your expectations about your first job”.  Honestly, I don’t think I have sky-high expectations; feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. I  think that having completed my Bachelors I should be able to at least secure a job as an administrative assistant or something of that ilk with regular hours and pay that is a little more than a dollar above minimum wage (in Massachusetts, its $10/hr).

Currently, I make $10.25 an hour as a customer service representative at the local supermarket. I know many people might be grumbling about how lucky I am to be employed at all, which I don’t deny. Money is a necessary evil in our capitalist society. I just know that I deserve better than what I am currently getting out of my employment. Unless I sell my life to the company in the hopes of securing a full-time job, I can never get insurance through my job. While this isn’t an immediate issue, I really need to find a job with benefits before I turn twenty-six and am required to get my own insurance.

Here’s the problem: I am evidently under-qualified for nearly all of the entry-level jobs available in my area. Many of these jobs require between one and three years of relevant work experience (which I don’t have) or a valid MA driver’s license (which I am in the process of finally getting). It really sets me off that employers think that “entry-level” jobs are reserved for people who are in fact seasoned in a field of work. Where am I expected to get this job experience? As I’ve previously griped about, I didn’t take advantage of networking opportunities in school so I don’t have any professional contacts, and I don’t come from a family who is well-connected. I am lucky enough to come from a family who can afford to house and feed me until I can secure a job that I can actually support myself on. If things are this hard for me, I can’t imagine how much harder it is for people who don’t have my privileges.

Should  comfortable employment be contingent on the circumstances of your birth? Absolutely not, but that is the story of our society. And I am not going to take this lying down.

All my love,

Katherine Wheel