Depression (Again)

Depression makes it hard to write,  to see an idea all the way through. I have dozens of drafts of half-written posts my depression has convinced me aren’t worth finishing. 

Depression tells me I’ll never be able to support myself by writing, and that I don’t deserve to. Depression tells me it’s not worth trying. 

Depression rides like a raven on my shoulder,  whispering my fears as truths. It tells me hope is a lie, that better lives are for better people.  Depression makes me forget times I have loved myself whole. 

Yet I fight. I write. I take pills and walks. I treat and manage my depression day by day, as best as I can each day. Sometimes I’m almost well – capable of keeping up with responsibilities,  in positive contact with friends and family, and well rested enough to be a patient and kind parent. 

Some days I’m not well at all. Basic tasks overwhelm me and I feel isolated from the world around me. On those days my job is to survive,  to make it through to the next good day even as I doubt that day will ever come.

Depression is a part of my life.  Given the traumas I’ve endured and the financial insecurity I still live with, it’s not surprising.  But I don’t want to let it take my life. So I do what I can on the good days – like calling in my refills before my prescriptions run out – to survive the darkest days. I fight, because my stubbornness has served me well so far.

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