Uncrushed

This blog mostly began as a way to write about depression. A lot of the time I don’t feel like writing about it. But I’m always still living it. And sometimes I get back to a point of expression and can write about it again.

I’ve written previously about counselling and anti-depressants. They have both been important tools in my box of strategies. As has exercise.

Support from other people in my life has been incredibly important as I’ve contended with depression. I’ve mentioned it in this post, and I’ve talked a bit about my wonderful hubby James’ stabilising help. It really has to be said that I have been surrounded with an amazing array of friends and family. If it were possible to avoid depression purely by some force-field of significant-other protection, surely I would have been a depression-free champion-type-person.

But it’s not possible. Depression will come, and go. Sometimes, rather randomly. That’s partly what makes it so puzzling. If you don’t mind the odd eff-word, read this post at “Hyperbole and a Half” about depression. A lot of it rang true for me. Though not so much the ending.

The next part of my story (after sorting out the counselling and the drugs) is fairly stable. The workhorse that is Zoloft made a major difference to: my mood, motivation, energy, general coping. I felt, finally, more like myself again. My great friends who had stood by me (often wondering what to do), were still there, smiling at me and saying things like, “it’s so nice to have you back”. Which was awesome. I did feel like I’d been away somewhere.

Even now, details of the first ten months after my second baby evade my memory. My darling 5-year-old asked me the other day about her birth story. The girls are both fascinated that she was born on a ‘crash mat’; she was born rather quickly. I can remember quite a deal of detail about the day she was born, and the few days after that. Then it becomes rather (self-protectively?) hazy until her first birthday. Even the camera didn’t help. It broke down when she was two months old, and neither of us had the energy to get it fixed or buy a new one. I still feel sad about that. I’ve stopped feeling guilty about it.

Baby books, scrapbooking, photography. All of those have been – are sometimes still – a bit beyond me. I just cannot bring myself to document with the diligence ‘required’. We do have photos. They are stored on CDs, and on the hard-drive of broken laptops. One day, I promise myself, I will get organised with them. I still feel sad about that, too.

Plugging on. That’s what I did. Until I started to enjoy life again. And what a feeling that is.

To wake up, tired but bright with awareness that it’s another day, and you have a life that you’re going to live in that day, and you may not be completely equal to it, but that’s ok too.

To be un-crushed by dread.

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