Down the Rabbit Hole

I am deep down the rabbit hole of depression. I haven't left the house in five days. I'm curled up on the couch, watching bad TV, unable to write most days, munching through my third bag of mini marshmallows.

I hate writing about depression. I'll get 2 to 3 emails from family or friends asking me if I've done this or that. Their solution is always perfect in their minds, and even if they suffer from depression, they don't seem to understand that somedays the hole is too deep and there's no option but riding it out. This number has decreased over the years as I have learned to bluntly tell them to fuck off. I might be depressed but I haven't lost my anger. 

But bigger than the messages I might receive, is that I am self diagnosed. I have never met with a professional about these dark seasons. As someone who is self diagnosed, I recognize that this needs to change. I am acutely aware that I need help. My depression is surrounded by brick walls of fear that I have yet to tear down. Speaking to a professional and being diagnosed is a huge part of what the walls are built out of. The other being leaving the house. 

Today, I sit here in the brightness of my house, happy that I don't live in a dark hovel. Happy that I have calendar events set to remind me to do a load of laundry, water the plants, clean the bathrooms, eat. All the windows are open, letting in the sounds of birds tweeting on the tree outside, the smell of moisture before the rain, and the occassional siren or two. I'm in a safe place and because of that I pulled out the box of memories that I have been staring at for the past six months. The box has been bothering me and I have been wanting to get rid of it. So when I was feeling strong, I opened it up and began dealing with what was inside.

Opening that box is what lead to the current rabbit hole of depression. 

It's all my childhood photos, my old scrapbooks, graduation pictures, and some of my journals. It's all the memories of my life before. The chapter I have been trying to erase for a decade. Scanning each individual piece onto the computer has been the goal. Then I can pack up some and mail it to those who want the originals and I can burn the rest. No matter how strong I felt when I started this project, there was no way to make it through to the end still feeling that way. I'm halfways through ripping the band-aid off and I can't stop, there's only forward. 

So I ask Kevin to pick up another bag of mini marshmallows and maybe a bottle of wine. When this project is through, maybe I'll make that appointment. Maybe I'll curl up on the couch for five more days. And maybe I'll feel free.