A word about depression

I woke up this morning from nightmares. As I lay there watching the shadows cast by the labyrinth-handsfan and what little light shone under the door, I came to a revelation. I have been depressed.

I have anxiety depression. I know this. It is a fact of life. I take a little blue pill every morning after breakfast to help with it. Yet I still fall into that quagmire of dingy gray without realizing it. The world loses color, I sleep too much, and everyday activities take a herculean amount of effort.

Looking back I can kind of notice where the slide began this time. The multiple days of rain haven’t help matters either. Neither has sinus trouble and a sick child.

The ascent out of my gray world began yesterday when I sat on the porch for an hour and read the newspaper. (You would think that reading tales of drug dealers and politicians would make me more depressed.) That one hour out of the house and in the sunshine did something.

I am sure it had something to do with vitamin levels and such. But I prefer to think that a bit of that sunlight managed to trickle down to me where I was trapped and wrapped in gray bindings. That while I slept last night I was able to use that trickle of sunlight as a rope to climb up.

I am not completely out of the hole yet but I can see top. And from where I am in my climb I can look back on that dingy gray world and say: Oh. I was depressed. 

 

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