I think I had what they call a breakthrough.
Since my breakdown two weeks ago… things have been eerily good. A few days after the PTSD flashback that sent me into the waves of grief that I had been avoiding, I felt lighter– calmer even. I’ve felt like more myself than I’ve felt in a while, as if my perspective went through a literal shift. It feels weird to feel so okay, so good that I was actually concerned that I’d have nothing to talk about in my therapy session.
I’m a little suspicious of it. But maybe that’s normal.
Depression is a funny thing.
It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Some days, you forget you ever had it. You forget it was there, you forget that it pays rent somewhere deep in your brain. Depression can be a quiet, easy tenant– paying bills on time, never throwing parties and always taking out the trash.
And then again, there are times when it shows up in your living room. It waits until you’re out of the house, and when you aren’t paying attention– it comes up from behind you, pushes you down, and sits on your chest.
Go back to bed.
But wasn’t I just frolicking in daisies, sunshine and rainbows yesterday?
Sorry, mother fucker. Today you get a visit from your longest tenant.
It’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your eyes, or the lashes on your eyelids. It’s the kind of darkness that makes you see things that can’t really be there, like random shocks of red light, or an incomprehensible low throb of light pulsing in the edges of your vision.
It’s silent, but you can hear– hear isn’t the right word– you can loudly feel every movement inside your body– the crack of your spine, the pulse of your organs, the click of your fingers.
For my birthday last weekend, I pledged to myself that I’d do absolutely nothing all weekend in order to rest up, practice some self-care, and relax before three consecutive weeks of traveling.
It’s something I’ve always wanted to do for my birthday—sleep in until 10 am all weekend, eat a whole box of chocolates, drink champagne while reading some nonfiction, lounge on the deck, and order takeout while never changing out of my pajamas.
If you haven’t noticed by now, I do a lot of self-love/self-care/happiness experiments on myself.
There are so many resources and ideas out there—I have a hard time just picking one thing to try.
One such experiment, for lack of a better term, is dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) that addresses the reasonable, emotional, and wise mind.