LJI 10:4 -- skating to where the puck will be
I've battled depression for years. So much of the time, it's an uphill struggle in the snow, while barefoot, in below freezing temperatures. I know that there are going to be some months that are harder to deal with than others.
April is my least favorite month. Some people love it...Flowers are starting to come out, there are cute baby animals around. But for me it's the beginning of my spring depressive cycle. And I know that for the next thirty-one days, it's going to be harder and harder to do the things I love to do.
Instead of wanting to hit up the St. Vincent's thrift shop down the street for ridiculously cheap books and retro kitschy knick-knacks, I have to push myself out of bed every single day.
Instead of wanting to immerse myself in the kitchen cooking delicious food, comforting myself with the rituals of chopping garlic and onions, marinating chicken in buttermilk, and blending shallots, herbs, olive oil and vinegar to make dressing, I subsist off the McDonald's dollar menu, eating foods that don't even taste good because it's easier.
People think self care should be fun. Go get a mani-pedi! Go shopping. Karaoke with your friends!
But in fact, it's not glamorous and it's not fun.
It means that you have to wash your hair when it's so greasy it looks like you washed it in canola oil.
It means that you need to wash the pile of dishes that have accumulated in the sink that you don't feel emotionally equipped to deal with.
It means you need to wear real clothes, not those Old Navy pajama pants, sock monkey slippers and the stinky, sweaty t-shirt you've been living in the past few days because getting dressed takes more energy than you possess.
By the time the middle of March rolls around, I have prepared myself for the upcoming crash. I have to plan for what I know will happen sooner rather than later.
The depressive phase, for me, is best explained by referencing that episode of "Duck Tales" where Magicka McQuack casts a spell to cast a dark cloud is over Scrooge no matter what he does, says, or where he goes. Scrooge carries the umbrella with him because even if the sun is shining everywhere else, it will be storming over his head.
All I can do is get ready for it to show up, so I grab my virtual umbrella on March 31st, make sure my night table is full of books and things to read, and that, with any luck, the pantry is stocked with Spaghetti-Os and Chunky soup so I don't go to McDonald's every day.
I hate it.
I don't think there's a person in this world who enjoys being depressed. But in a way, I'm lucky that I know when it's coming, so I can plan for it and let the people I love know that it's coming.
And if I find it hard to take care of myself during that window, I am thankful that I have someone who can.
I am thankful that I have him to run me a hot bath and a cup of tea, to take out the garbage or to pick up something to eat, or to cook for me, even if it's just a frozen flatbread pizza.
In the mental air hockey game I play throughout March, he and I both know where to go as we wait for the heavy weighted puck of sadness, sorrow, depression and crippling self-doubt to come around.
When it does, we are ready.
April is my least favorite month. Some people love it...Flowers are starting to come out, there are cute baby animals around. But for me it's the beginning of my spring depressive cycle. And I know that for the next thirty-one days, it's going to be harder and harder to do the things I love to do.
Instead of wanting to hit up the St. Vincent's thrift shop down the street for ridiculously cheap books and retro kitschy knick-knacks, I have to push myself out of bed every single day.
Instead of wanting to immerse myself in the kitchen cooking delicious food, comforting myself with the rituals of chopping garlic and onions, marinating chicken in buttermilk, and blending shallots, herbs, olive oil and vinegar to make dressing, I subsist off the McDonald's dollar menu, eating foods that don't even taste good because it's easier.
People think self care should be fun. Go get a mani-pedi! Go shopping. Karaoke with your friends!
But in fact, it's not glamorous and it's not fun.
It means that you have to wash your hair when it's so greasy it looks like you washed it in canola oil.
It means that you need to wash the pile of dishes that have accumulated in the sink that you don't feel emotionally equipped to deal with.
It means you need to wear real clothes, not those Old Navy pajama pants, sock monkey slippers and the stinky, sweaty t-shirt you've been living in the past few days because getting dressed takes more energy than you possess.
By the time the middle of March rolls around, I have prepared myself for the upcoming crash. I have to plan for what I know will happen sooner rather than later.
The depressive phase, for me, is best explained by referencing that episode of "Duck Tales" where Magicka McQuack casts a spell to cast a dark cloud is over Scrooge no matter what he does, says, or where he goes. Scrooge carries the umbrella with him because even if the sun is shining everywhere else, it will be storming over his head.
All I can do is get ready for it to show up, so I grab my virtual umbrella on March 31st, make sure my night table is full of books and things to read, and that, with any luck, the pantry is stocked with Spaghetti-Os and Chunky soup so I don't go to McDonald's every day.
I hate it.
I don't think there's a person in this world who enjoys being depressed. But in a way, I'm lucky that I know when it's coming, so I can plan for it and let the people I love know that it's coming.
And if I find it hard to take care of myself during that window, I am thankful that I have someone who can.
I am thankful that I have him to run me a hot bath and a cup of tea, to take out the garbage or to pick up something to eat, or to cook for me, even if it's just a frozen flatbread pizza.
In the mental air hockey game I play throughout March, he and I both know where to go as we wait for the heavy weighted puck of sadness, sorrow, depression and crippling self-doubt to come around.
When it does, we are ready.