Walking Through, Owning Up, and Giving In

“I’m just burnt.” I find myself saying.

The house is messy. It’s clean, but the clutter is making me twitchy and the bending down and picking up and putting away is just too much.

I’ve got a meal plan written out. And a list for shopping. But I have absolutely no desire to go, push around a cart, load and unload the car, put away, and then make the food so it doesn’t go to waste.

I have a friend I keep meaning to call because I adore her and she’s a good friend and you have to be a friend to keep a friend but having to maintain a conversation? I just don’t have the energy.

While it’s been mentioned a few times, the doctor recommended/approved “medication experiment” resulted in a very apparent conclusion: I need fluoxetine just as much as I need indoor plumbing. I can survive without it – but life is a lot more pleasant for me (and everyone else) with it.

The general time line? Two weeks of weaning, the acknowledgment I like life with it better than without it, back to regular every day medicine. My mind/body is pissed that I’ve been messing with it’s routine (oh, how I love a routine) and I quite honestly don’t know what end is up most days.

I want to read, write, knit, embroider, sleep, and snuggle with my loved ones. Period. Doing the day to day stuff that keeps life moving? Just thinking about it makes me want to curl up and pull the covers over my head. Having to compose the appropriate response to a friend’s statement? My body starts vibrating and I want to yell, “I don’t know. I can’t think straight. Just talk to me next week.”

I have depression. Maybe bi-polar II (depending who you ask). And I used to try to fight that. I used to try and pretend everything was okay and plaster a smile on my face and get through and that would work. Until it didn’t. Then I’d lie in bed and sob for weeks while life crashed down around my ears.

A few things have changed (thanks to a whole lot of counseling): I am more aware of feelings and can communicate them more effectively. I take medicine. I don’t pretend. I don’t fight.

When I was growing up, I read somewhere (probably a Reader’s Digest) that if you ever land in quicksand, you shouldn’t struggle. It’s the struggling that causes the sand to swallow you up. Instead you are supposed to relax, lie back, and float/paddle your way to safety. (I just looked it up and that advice holds true.) Depression is like that for me. The more I push against it and try to make myself feel better the more mired and stuck I get. Soon enough, I’m drowning in it. But if I calm down and look around, I realize that with some patience, I can get to safe ground.

So I take my medicine. I go for walks. I build in time. I do what is absolutely necessary and put the rest in a box to be figured out later (both literally and figuratively). I let one part of my brain worry that I’m not loved while loving on the people who love me. I acknowledge. And breathe. And pray.

It’s a constant tweaking and balancing and judging and asking very trusted advisors if my lens is broken. It’s hard. It can be exhausting. I sometimes feel like a burden to my friends and family. But I don’t get swallowed up the way I used to. I’ve learned to float in the mire and not get bogged down by it. Eventually, I’ll get through without crashing my life down in the process.

And some days, that’s enough hope to get me through another load of laundry.