…very sharply it struck me that each time in my life when I’d experienced depression, it was when my life had gotten off track and I had deviated too far away from my Self. Depression wasn’t the cause, it was the consequence. And if I allowed it to be, it would serve as an opportunity to go totally insular and, for lack of a better phrase, get my shit together.
I was doing a lot of things that I didn’t want to do. Not only that, I was devoting a lot of resources to doing them. But what depression does is it puts you in survival mode. And when you only have a little, you’re a bit more cognizant of how you ration. This time is hell, but maybe it’s a gift. What are the things worth getting out of bed for? Who are the people worthy of my truth? Where are the places I can go to rejuvenate and put my soul at ease?
It’s hard not to feel…like I should know better. Like I should’ve seen the warning signs. Like I should have listened to my guy back in June. Or May. Or February…but what I have is this moment right now, what am I going to do with it? For right this moment I’m going to continue laying in bed, in the dark, and crying. I won’t silence myself when I feel a physical jolt of discomfort with having to talk or engage with others. I won’t stop my tears, if they feel like dancing. I won’t feel guilty for indulging in solitude. I am giving in to everything depression wants right now. Quiet. Isolation. Darkness. Cleansing. Peace. And when I announce that to my body, my heart slows to a rhythm I recognize. If my sadness is pervasive, what happens if I roll out a red carpet for it? What happens if I proclaim with conviction that I am sad, I’m out of balance, I’m mentally unwell but I am working on it, I’m giving myself time, and I’m going to be okay? Even if I don’t know when. Even if I don’t know how…
The freedom in even writing that splintered a dam within me. That is the kind of radical freedom I was missing, I was denying myself. And I don’t want to fight it…Zachary was right. There’s an opportunity to grow and to learn here and I’m going to take it.
It seems I am someone who requires, or has previously required extremes. I needed to tiptoe around self-destruction in order to understand self worth and value. It tells me that I’m otherwise too desensitized. I’d lost touch…but I recognize this as a chance to fix it. Depression is my wildfire. But scorched earth isn’t permanently barren. Nature has a way of restoring balance. And so this is my restoration. Maybe that’s the other face of depression.