I am coming into my ninth year of being considered clinically depressed. On March 15, 2002, my brain broke. There was an incident at work that sent me in a tailspin. It shouldn’t have. It should have been a normal meeting with a bad moment. But it snapped whatever part of my brain was trying to hold me together.
Thankfully, I was able to get into the doctor’s office that Tuesday and since March 19, 2002, I have been medicated. I expect I will be on meds the rest of my life. And knowing my life now versus then, I am happy to do so.
It hasn’t been all wine and roses since. I was lucky that I got the right med the first time. I was unlucky when my insurance company decided not to cover it. I was thankful when the med went generic and I could afford it again. There have depressive periods. Some short, some months long.
I’m guessing I am in one now. Because I don’t want to do anything. That includes getting out of bed.
At work I’m good. My house is chaos. CHAOS. My dog doesn’t remember the last time she got a good walk. My trash is going to take itself out soon. There are shoes everywhere. My Christmas wrap is still out.
I have good intentions. For tomorrow. And then tomorrow comes. And, well, it will still all be there tomorrow. Alas, it is. I can’t really pinpoint it to anything. I’ve been good about a year now. But lately I’ve just been struggling. You probably wouldn’t know it talking to me. But this just sitting in my bed (not even the couch!) is an indicator.
I know if I would tidy up and get a little exercise things would clear up. It’s just figuring out what I need to do to get there.
I know, just do it and what you need will come. Whatever.