The thing about living with depression, or having had depression, is that it’s always in the back of your mind that it will get worse or that it will return.
I’ve had a rough few weeks. I’m tired and I’m run down. I feel low. At the moment it’s not a relapse, as I know exactly what’s getting me down, I don’t want to sleep all of the time, I can eat, I haven’t pushed every man and his dog away, and I can still genuinely laugh (and I’m not a total bitch to live with). But the thought is there. The what if…what if this is the beginning, again. What if something else happens and I lose control. I know – I’ve been there a few times. I remember what it was like. It scares me.
It IS different this time, as I do now know and recognise the signs. I have an awareness of my triggers, and I know what coping mechanisms help for me. I am also already on anti-depressants – so my blessed brain already has some added assistance to help keep balanced. It’s like my security blanket. The thought of staying on these bloody pills forever is a daunting thought, but it’s one I can live with. It’s like people with diabetes – in order to maintain their blood sugar levels they need insulin. For those with high blood pressure, they need tablets (and a healthy diet). For people with depression, some of us need a daily pill – accompanied by exercise, fresh air, relaxation, good food, and a whole lot of laughter.
The other notable difference is that I’m still writing. During all of the other times, I couldn’t. For years I had lost the ability to create, to string words together, to do what I love…and there is no way in hell that I’m letting it go now that I’ve found it again!