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Emerging From Depression Into a Pandemic
“Ah yes, done with ruins, let’s get to the… rubble?”
Those who are close to me know that I have been struggling for about eight months now, and when I say struggling, I mean devastatingly stuck in myself. I have been a long-time hypocritical advocate of the notion that “everyone should go to therapy” without actually going to therapy myself. I have struggled before, but always found something or someone to pin my struggles to; I externalized and moved on.
This was different. Night after night, awake until 4am, feeling like throwing glass at a wall would make me feel better. Wondering what the world be like if I wasn’t here, only to “come to” 30 minutes later on a road I didn’t intend to take, realizing I had been driving on auto-pilot the whole time. Ed and Chuck scratching my back, promising refuge despite knowing they were sure-paths to total destruction.
That struggle is not what this article is about; I have tried many a time to publish what I have going through, and I have to admit I am no where close to being that open. Maybe later.
Life finally got to be too much for me late last September, and I reached out for help. I talked to my closest people. I got on Zoloft. I found a therapist. I started exercising again. I occasionally slept through the night. I even snagged a boyfriend (lord knows…
