That D Word.

I should probably get the this out of the way here. I’m not talking about December. Or Chris Pratt riding a motorcycle with dinosaurs. I expect this to get rough fairly quickly. So, depression. It’s kind of a thing. It’a running theme in my family, and my life, sure.

If anyone knows me or the like, they probably know that I haven’t had the best couple of years. Or few years. Or half decade. Or whatever you want to call it. And, no matter what I’d love to say, and no matter how much I wish it were different, I’ve spent a majority of the past few years bouncing in and out of depression. And I’d LOVE to say, oh, I don’t know, that I’m not, that’s not the case, and no, I’m perfectly perfectly fine.

And that would be complete bullshit.

In a way, this is a follow up to a post from a year or so ago.

I was talking it over with my doctor for about a year before, almost two years ago now. Around the time things became apparent it wouldn’t be safe for my mom to stay at home. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. I talked it over with a psychiatrist and a medical doctor. I was hesitant about it. My biggest fear was, how is this going to affect me. I was scared of something taking away my, well my me, making me into something I wasn’t.  I was afraid it would take away my artistic ability, that in the evening out my moods I would lose the days where I can fill an entire sketchbook or write an entire play in one sitting. I like those insane artistic moments, and I was afraid of missing them.

I made the decision to start something, around a year ago, now. At that point it had been a month, and I wasn’t feeling better, I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t living. I was in a haze.

My family, the majority of them anyway, was out for holidays, and more than that, we were planning our service, for my mom, we waited until we could assemble as much of my family as possible. The planning and arranging was the most stressful and difficult , well, anything of anything, ever. It was during this point I started my first antidepressant.

Looking back, I don’t know if that was my best decision (nor was it’s follow up of jumping into a relationship with a girl I met on Instagram two months after my mom died — but THAT’S another story), because shortly after that time, is when I actually started to feel better. I don’t know if it was because of the antidepressants, in fact, I don’t think it was at all.

I think the biggest mistake was waiting so long to do the service, because the service itself, was cathartic and emotional and it was closure. At the same time, it’s a selfish thing for me to say because while it was a necessary closure me it was also necessary for my entire family. Waiting served everyone in the end.

Near the end of January I started to feel again, feel happier, feel anything. I can’t say there weren’t still bad days, because there are still bad days and thought trails that end in tears, and so much more, but it felt better. I continued to take them.

The year continued on, I went to California experienced a lot of awesome things, came back, started working with Denver Writes and other good things. There were bad things too, not passing a class, which caused me to not graduate was difficult, failing a class (which, I’ve never FAILED a class before, ever) was devastating. I also took a playwriting class, where I wrote the best thing I’d written, at the time, so it wasn’t a complete disaster. From a personal standpoint I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with who I was, appearance wise. While I was in no way in danger or obese, I was certainly at a heavier point than I’ve ever been. Well, not ever, but I was close to the heaviest point I had ever been. And this was just three years after I was at the healthiest and best point I’d ever been at. So, I started to do something about it.

It was around this time that I was hit with the concurrent news that my grandparents were not doing so well, health wise, and my cats started weird. First one, than the other.

After that point, I stopped trying to keep better. I gave up. I wasn’t feeling better or worse again. I couldn’t tell if the antidepressants where helping me or not. My grandparents passed and I couldn’t tell if my emotions or feelings were my own, or controlled. I talked to my doctor about stopping. I talked to my best friend about stopping. But I didn’t. I stopped taking them as regularly, I was supposed to wean myself off of them, so on and and on, but I didn’t really follow that plan.

I stopped taking them completely the day I found out Midnight was going to die. Whatever it was, for whatever reason this was happening, I knew I wanted to feel this and I wanted my emotions to be real, as real as they could be. I didn’t expect Apollo to die exactly a week later. And maybe I was more emotional because I stopped. Or maybe I was more emotional because I was having the shittiest year ever, and by year I mean a 12 month period, but actually i mean a 9 month period. because that’s how it worked.

Anyway. I’ve been off since.

Does that mean I’m perfect? No, I still have bad days and terrible days. I still miss my cats. Almost every day. I had an exceptionally terrible date, that was excellent for my self esteem. Not having a job for the first time since I was 16 is also, really weird. But overall, things are, well they’re better.

Do I feel better?  I’m starting to work out more, and lose weight and have body positivity. I somehow managed to get almost straight As (i’m still waiting on one grade..), which feels amazing after 3 terrible semesters in a row. And, yes, I feel better. I’m doing more things. I’m trying to be more social. I’m dog sitting two adorable puppies, who while not cats, are endless sources of happiness.

So yeah, I really don’t have an ending to this, because it’s kind of an ongoing thing still, but, I mean, I need to end it eventually, why not here.


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