Two Years

Two years ago, I was sinking.  Each morning, an awful, foggy sadness descended on my first waking thoughts, to follow me though the day.  Ordinary tasks felt such an ordeal, and my responsibilities seemed overwhelming.  I knew that I had much to appreciate, but that made me feel even worse.  Some nights I cried myself to sleep.

Three or four times, I began to think that death would be better, but since I knew that would make those close to me sad, I found myself wondering how many people would also need to die to make it 'ok.'  Thankfully, I did realise that really wasn't a healthy thought process, and I was able to reach out and get help.  Looking back, it seems so obvious that it was depression, but it's harder to clearly see things that your nose is pressed up against.

The two years that have passed seem like a very, very long time.  When I accepted the GP's offer of medication, I imagined I'd take it for 6 months or so...but soon learned that it's better to continue it for 6 months after the symptoms have resolved.  After realising that that time had come, I chose to wait a little longer, and then began a slow reduction, starting over the summer months when I had relatively less pressure in life.  This week is my first week taking no tablets, and it feels like I'm forgetting something when I brush my teeth at bedtime!

None of us could have anticipated what has been the strangest two years in most people's living memory.  For various reasons—pandemic included—our house is definitely messier than it was before I became unwell.  I'm sure though, that at least some of the inside of me is better ordered.  Once in a while, if I experience sadness that coincides with tiredness and pressure, the combination briefly adds up to something that reminds me of when I was engulfed in the sinky mire. I don't ever want to go there again.  Through it all, I learnt loads about me, and a raft of self-care skills that I still use, though I could do to be a bit more intentional about that.

In this two years, I've managed to complete a Diploma in Practical Theology, and have a place to start a Theology MA in February. Experience confirms what my instinct told me: massively reduced activity wouldn't have resolved the struggles, because depression seems to hook onto whatever it can, making anything and everything seem hopeless.  I do think I've learned to cut myself some slack, though.  There's one reason for the messier house.

This feels like an extended moment to reflect, to appreciate, to ponder.  Having submitted my final diploma essay the day before, when school broke up I took the boys out and we ate chips in the middle of the afternoon, to celebrate.  The weekend also included a curry with my lovely husband, who gave me the final push to enroll in the first place.  A new poem is partly drafted, but I'm not sure it will ever materialise.  Whilst there's still so much inside me that's bursting to be expressed, and plenty on the outside that is rather misunderstood, I definitely have a greater peace about leaving a great deal unsaid.⬦

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