It’s been a rough week. Talking about it is hard. Writing about it is harder. Everything I say is laid under a microscope of my own making, scrutinized, and ultimately rejected.
Am I overreacting? What would people think? Should I even say anything at all?
I wonder if it’s just a bad day, or a bad week, or a bad month. I worry it’s the beginning of a slide.
Is this temporary? Should I have my meds adjusted? Is everything still going to suck when I wake up tomorrow?
I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life questioning my mental health at every turn. I ask myself “why”, which turns into a vortex of self-doubt that usually ends at, “There must be something wrong with me.”
Not enough exercise? Genetics? Too much sugar? Hormones? Seasonal? Too negative? Too much stress? Brain chemistry? Not enough water?
I think I’ve been operating under the assumption that the medication is a temporary stopgap and eventually I won’t need it. At some point, I will go back to being “just me.”
But what if I can’t? How will I know? How do I adapt?
All the wondering turns to worrying which is exhausting, which just makes everything worse. So I go for a walk and I feel a little better. Black cherry frozen greek yogurt helps, too.
Then I wake up today, and I feel good. Capable. “Normal,” save for the feeling I’ve just had an unsatisfying whirlwind fling with a real jerk of a person, who happens to be…me.
Depression is such an annoying, unpredictable bitch.