Into The Deep

This is the time of the season that depression gets really real for me. It’s been a repetitious cycle for as long as I can remember. It goes a little something like this:

  • I begin to withdraw socially; phone calls become a lot less, text response becomes much slower, my answers become trite and short. The most people hear from me is usually on Facebook because status updates allow me to be conversational on my terms. I can retreat when I want and no one really takes offense.
  • I lose my art. Yep, with increase in meds and my depressive moods increasing, I find myself unable to do what I love most; creating. I can write, but I’m never really happy with the product. I feel like my creative juices have dried up and disappeared. In the past, this has led me to coming off my meds, which always ended up bad. However, in those manic moments, the moments of medicinal withdraw, my pen was it’s most honest and artistic. This time around I am desperately trying not to allow my insatiable need to fulfill my artistic passion get in my way.
  • My patience grows thin. I am not a patient person by nature, but when this time of the season comes around I find myself incapable of maintaining my composure let alone my patience. It’s a true test of the meds and therapy, especially with having children. I find myself more tense and unable to process what I deem to be other people’s nonsense. Hence why as stated above, I normally withdraw. I can be very unpleasant.
  • Melancholy is the new black. Yep, I get so down right sad I wear it like a fashionable shroud everywhere I go. And it’s not that I don’t have things to be happy about, because I certainly do. But the depressed mind is great at playing tricks on you. Very Jeidi like. I find that when it rains I’m prone to tears, the colder it gets, the less the sun shines, the darker it gets earlier, I am simply a melancholy person. My smiles are usually forced because it’s fair to my children or those around me to have to deal with this moodiness of mine. I crave my bed and pillows and blankets and silence when it’s this time of the season.

I know all all of these things about myself. It’s almost biblical for me. Yet here I am, another year, trying to be different. Fighting the good fight. Many years I’ve succumbed to the pressure of the selfishness depression incurs. This year I feel like there is a glimmer of hope, a possibility that things can be different. I’m in a new state, a new house, a different atmosphere now that I’m full time at home mom. I am way more committed to taking my meds and the communication between myself and my husband is better than it has been in years. I find myself expressing those sad moments when in the past I’ve kept silent and let it fester and eat me up on the inside.

I can’t guarantee that this time of the year will be any better than any other year, BUT, the defining difference is, I am hopeful.

Hope, such a wonderful word. A wonderful feeling. I have to hold onto something.

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