Thought Monkeys

When I was going through my Post-partum depression after the birth of my oldest son, I lamented to Cloe that all I wanted was one good day.  Just one.  A day in which the baby stayed on schedule and my husband stayed on the wagon.  A day in which my soul would be free of the torment of suicidal ideation and the skies would be free of torrents of rain.  I wanted a day in which I liked myself effortlessly.  My heart, my soul, and my mind, were bruised from continuously beating myself up with all of my perceived inadequacies, shortcomings, and reasons the world would be better off without me in it.  Although I was not physically attempting suicide on a daily basis, I was starving my psyche to death by depriving it of nurturing thoughts and feeding it spiritual poison.  I was killing my soul day by day and thought by thought.  

Cloe, who had listened to me sob on a near daily basis for months, looked at me softly and said, "Honey, we don't get good Days, not a whole day.  But we get really great moments sometimes, and those are what see us through the yucky moments.  You have to look for the good ones and not let them go; they're yours.  And keep them in mind when you think you're having a bad day, 'cuz it's not all bad, not all day."  I thought she was full of it at the time.  She seemed to have good days all the time; everyone seemed to have good days but me.  Everyone else seemed so capable and well-adjusted.  Even if Cloe was having a rough day, she didn't think she was worthless and should off herself.  She just went and hung out in Cloe's World, a magical coping place where all difficulties are illuminated with slightly optimistic sunshine and iridescent rationality blooms all around, until things got better. Which was just further proof to me that I was incapable and should off myself.  I was a sick woman.  

In the months after the diagnosis of Bipolar II, I made a commitment to never let those thoughts go by unchecked again.  I decided I was sick and tired of being a slave to the Thought Monkeys - my name for those incredibly destructive, deeply internalized, mischievous thoughts that jump and screech inside my mind, demanding attention, demanding action NOW.  Look at us NOW.  Thought Monkeys believe they are viable, tangible, living creatures, and in a sense they are.  They eat, they breathe, and they grow, which, according to Sesame Street, are the three qualifications for deciding whether or not something is alive.  

Thought Monkeys feed on depressed thinking.  The proof in this pudding is that my energy to fight them is depleted the more they jump around.  The vanishing stores of personal strength are the evidence of their appetites.  Second, Thought Monkeys breathe in the vapors of my soul.  J.K. Rowling recently revealed that the Dementors in the Harry Potter series were literary expressions of  a suicidal depression she had struggled with earlier in life.  The Dementors feed on misery and when let loose gather in groups to take turns sucking out the soul of their victim. I have never identified more with an author. Lastly, Thought Monkeys grow in intensity when left unchecked for any period of time.  The more they feed on my weakened thinking, the more they breathe in my soul, the more they exercise by jumping and screeching in my cerebral cortex, the bigger and more exaggerated their presence becomes.  They are fearsome creatures and their real formidability is that they have been with me since I was a young girl.  

The Thought Monkeys even have names.  In no particular order they alternately introduce themselves as follows:  "I'm 'Not Enough of, at or for Anything'"; "I'm 'A Big Burden'"; "I'm 'Unlovable'"; "My name is, 'The World Would Be Better Off Without Me'"; and her close cousin, "I'm 'Not Worthy to Breathe In This Air Shared By My Friends and Family'"; and my least favorite says, "I'm 'To Blame for Every Abusive Thing that Has Ever Been Done to Me My Entire Life'".  Aren't they sweet?  Each one is uglier than the last and they each think they are the most important one.  Hateful little creatures.

So, I decided to challenge them. Each one, every time.  This process was the most exhausting task I have ever undertaken.  For six months I looked at every single thought that went through my head.  If the thought was positive, "Isn't my son cute?" I kept it.  If the thought was neutral, "Don't forget to pick up milk", I kept it.  If a Thought Monkey popped up, I would challenge it and dismiss it.  For example, if "Not Enough..." started yelling, I would think, "Who exactly set that standard?  I might not be the best, but I am Good Enough."  If "Not Worthy to Breathe in the Air..." started jumping on the bed, I would say (and there was a lot of talking to myself out loud during this time) "Then what exactly is the purpose of having lungs and four ventricles?".

You get the picture.

After roughly six months, I got so good at this that I didn't have to argue with the Monkeys anymore, I could just think, "I see you and it's not working."  And I learned that because the Monkeys were alive, I could starve them to death; I could stop feeding them my energy, stop letting them breathe in my soul, and stop letting them grow in strength and intensity. The bonus was that every time I denied them a piece of me, I fed my spirit.  I breathed in the air and loved the freshness, loved knowing that I was inhaling what the trees around me were exhaling. I grew stronger by walking down my Path to Wellness step by step, mental mile by mental mile.  I had more good moments than bad moments for the first time in years. Creating this process for myself and finishing it with a bit of help from Dr. Mean Old Lady, Cloe, Lydia, Winnie, my husband, Bowser, and the smile of my little son, Luigi, is one of the Greatest Accomplishments of my life.  I feel the effects of it to this day.  

When I do cycle and I've got a bit of a depression going on, the Thought Monkeys come knocking at my door. Sometimes I inadvertently get stuck listening to them, as if they were Jehovah Witnesses that rang my doorbell on a day I was feeling more polite and less snarky than usual.  But after a bit, I come to my senses and remember that these creatures are not a part of my reality.  I do not believe in their bullshit on days when I am feeling most myself.  I remember how hard-won my toolbox is.  So I acknowledge them, then I dismiss them.  I reach in my toolbox, pull out my hammer, and nail the door closed.  I see the fallen sign and put it back up in my window:  Thought Monkeys Beware.  Premises Patrolled by Attack Sophie.