I’m Sad. Should I Blame My Brain or My Habits?

I recently aired my mental health struggles on the Internet. In a ten-minute Instagram video, I confessed to recently having fleeting moments where I just didn’t want to be alive anymore. It was both liberating and incredibly frightening to say out loud to a small audience of a few hundred people.

My mental health struggles exist in a grey area. Did I ever think I would seriously end my own life? No. But was I sick of living the life I was currently living? An all-caps, emphatic YES. And I write in the past tense when describing this when the truth is that it’s very much a present-tense struggle.

I’m currently suffering through revenge bedtime — refusing to go to bed before 1am each night, only to roll over an hour after my alarm each morning. I think to myself — shit. I really have to do this again, don’t I?

And this isn’t work, or dishes, or exercise. It’s life.

So my problem-solving brain immediately goes to identifying the source of my unhappiness. I’m a competent woman who’s accepting of challenges. This has to be a fixable problem.

There must be a root cause, right?

It must be the amount of time I spend on my phone — an ungodly series of hours or minutes that when read in sequence makes me horribly aware of why I can’t get anything done. Or perhaps it’s the not-getting-things-done in the first place. If only I could hang that piece of art that’s been staring at me from the floor, or put away the growing pile of laundry that’s collecting around my hamper.

A friend even reached out after my embarrassing Instagram confessional to see how she could help. She offered to help me find a therapist, which for an overburdened person who can’t get out of their head, is a big help. Instead, I deflected. Knowing she’s a clean freak who keeps a tidy house, I asked her to teach me how to keep my house clean. “It’s a major source of my stress,” I said. Which is true!

But then I took a step back from that and has a bit of a Carrie Bradshaw moment. I couldn’t help but wonder…am I attributing my depression to the state of my surroundings instead of attributing my depression to its real source — my brain?

And the more I think about that…is there anything wrong with either approach? Can I improve the state of my mental health through small habits? If I can, why shouldn’t I try that first?

Realistically, I understand that my brain and I are not separate entities. I am my brain. My brain is me. But the stupid human in me wants to differentiate me, the chemical balance in my brain, from me, the summation of my practices and habits and experiences.

And I want to be able to blame one of those versions of myself for why I’m so damn unhappy.

When I think about crafting a well-balanced mental health “plate” for myself, it all boils down to a little bit of both. I can’t decipher how much of my mental health is related to the personal flaws and habits I can’t seem to stick to, but I won’t know it’s not those issues if I don’t try to attempt them first.

On a recent episode of the Armchair Expert podcast with Alexi Pappas, a line was said (the original quote is attributed to author Bill Wilson with a slightly different twist):

“You can’t think your way into acting differently, but you can act your way into thinking differently.”

This is the hope I’m clinging to. If I just alter my actions, I’ll slowly become a 1% better, happier version of myself each day. In a few weeks or months, I won’t even recognize myself anymore. I’ll be fully formed, blissful Erica. These small habits will have added up to a content and joyful me.

I’m unsure if that’s the hero’s path or the sucker’s path. Is it ignorant or naive to think that my mental health is solely tied to my actions? Or is it a cop-out to blame it on my brain being broken? Instinctively as humans, we must be fighting off centuries of mental health stigma. We can’t label an issue with our brain the same way we can label a rolled ankle or a sprained wrist.

And so I continue to fight the urge to admit that there might be something wrong with my brain. I carry on, looking for that small change in habits that will take me on the path to a less depressed self. And in the end, if it turns out I just needed a serotonin assist all along, I hope I can take that pill in a cleaner, tidier house, and skip out to an activity that doesn’t involve staring at my phone.

And all of those things are worth celebrating.