wilderbutterflyI frequently write entries and then delay posting them. This is in order to give them a thorough read through before posting them to the blogverse. This was a post I wrote Monday of Thanksgiving Weekend. My friend's birthday is the 25th of November.
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Depression is a cunt. Yep. That's right. I used it. The number one non-p.c. feminist-cringe worthy term. But I am taking leave of my sanity this week in spite of my best efforts to remain calm, and I reserve the right to rage about it. To use a female specific, slang word that references my vagina and all of the blood flow within. Because the alternative is a word that doesn't capture the true hurt and frustration I feel. The panic.
Let me be clear. Nothing in my life is wrong. I have the same partner I had yesterday. I got a good night, and day's, sleep. I have a gorgeous son, and I had a great, calming weekend. There are no new threats or changes in my life. I woke up this morning, and I wanted to climb back under the covers. I am currently holding back tears, and I literally don't know why.
I should probably explain that according to my therapist, the reason for this depression relates to a friend who was killed several years ago. We were just starting to reconnect, and she was killed. Murdered. It was sudden, and I still had the voicemail. That was 2009. I was inconsolable. Her birthday is in two days. It's possible that this is the reason my body has decided that I am going to be sad. Even if my mind has gotten over her. She was the kind of person who everyone loves. She was vibrant and funny, and a little child-like. She was gorgeous and didn't notice that she was good-looking.
When I have days like these, I try not to get angry at my mind for being a little fucked. I try to be patient with myself. Do I force myself to get out of bed? Yeah. And I go to work. But I do the things that help me. I go for a run. I abandon dinner and doing the chores that I had planned to do in favor of things that might help me breathe. I call a friend, and go for a walk. I get out of the house for a few hours. The hope is that I won't be so tired that I can't function.
If I'm so tired that I can't function, I might keep moving in spite of the fatigue that whispers to me, "stop moving. If you sit down, you'll feel better." I might go to a coffee shop and write, drinking coffee to stave off the bone-crushing tiredness. When it gets close enough to a reasonable time to go to sleep, I might give in and go to sleep, hoping that my husband can take care of my son, and that the depression doesn't last too long.
(Disclaimer: I am not suggesting that depression is something that can be fixed. It is not something that will manifest in the same way for everyone. I am not currently taking medication, for various reasons. I manage my disorder through behavioral methods and counseling. Please don't try to deal with this on your own if you know you have an issue. You are NOT alone. There are various healthcare professionals who work on a sliding scale if you don't have health care. There are emergency resources if you feel you are a danger to yourself or anyone else. Depression is serious. Please don't ignore it.)
(Published Dec 2, 2015 on Blogspot: Let's Celebrate Depression)