I try really hard not to get stuck in a vacuum here on my blog by only writing about depression and fibromyalgia. Just like eating a ham sandwich every day for lunch, that shit gets old pretty quick.
I don’t mean to offend ham, I’m just saying, give turkey a chance. It’s not just for Thanksgiving anymore.
And if you’re not allergic, try a peanut butter and jelly sandwich once in a while. Yum.
But things don’t always work out the way that I want them to. I can’t seem to find any stable footing, any peace. If it’s not one illness fucking with me, it’s the other. Or it’s both. Plus, I have a slew of heavy life issues to deal with that makes me sad.
I read a great post yesterday about how people who are depressed often have the knee jerk reaction of saying that they are “fine” when someone asks them how they are. It really hit me then, that I’ve been doing the exact same thing with almost everybody that I interact with.
I don’t want people to worry about me.
I mean, I’m human. I’m an empath. Emotional.
It’s normal to be bummed when life continuously throws you turdballs, right?
Depression is insidious, it can grow slowly over a long period of time and before you know it, you’re in the woods on an unseasonably chilly, rainy July day with a bottle of hydrocodone, trying to kill yourself.
I’ve been thinking about running away from home, dreaming of a new life where I have the chance to start all over again, hoping that I can be free of the chains that are rubbing my skin raw.
Maybe I’m not the only person who has that urge sometimes. I hope not, anyways.
So, yeah, I’m not doing great right now. But I’m holding on. I do all of the things that I’m supposed to be doing in order to combat that mother fucker that is depression.
I take my medications every morning, I have a great therapist, I disconnect when I need to (not as often as I should, though) in order to recharge myself. I’m taking more time to do things that make me feel momentarily joyful.
I’ve stopped trying so hard to save everybody at the expense of my own well being, repeating what my therapist taught me, “you can’t fix everything.”
It’s something that I whisper to myself at least 20 times a day, if not more.