Early morning

I started this blog with the intention of daily postings. There were two reasons. First, I thought it would be good for me to write. Writing a journal is a recommended activity for recovery from mental illness. I thought that posting it on the web would help me to keep at it. However, it has been almost two weeks since my first and only posting. Oh well, onward and upward.

Second, I thought it would be helpful for my family to understand what has been going on with me. After all, how do you describe a descent into a place that is just this side of catatonic? How tempting it was to just let go of my hold on reality, to float away and disappear into my own world? I have trouble understanding how I got here; how can I make my family understand? I live so much inside my own head, it's hard to communicate what's going on. My family is helping me, and I am committed to being honest with them, but sometimes when they ask me questions, my mind shuts down, and I flounder around, trying to form an answer. I guess I should get used to saying, "I don't know," instead of trying to answer when I'm not sure myself. In addition, progress is uneven at best, and things can change so quickly for me. What is true for me one day might not be true another. Sometimes one moment to another.

Here is an example of something that I could not communicate. I filed for unemployment benefits, which requires me to apply for at least one job a week. That was such a daunting task, but I did it, and then made the automated phone call to apply for benefits. It was a process that had filled me with dread, but it was going to represent a very real accomplishment. After burning up minutes on my phone, I received a message that my claim could not be processed, and that I would receive an explanation by mail within 4 weeks. It was a devastating setback. I didn't know how to explain to my family what that experience meant to me. It was a painful experience that ended in failure. Definitely made me shy away from trying anything else.

There has been a lifetime of little blows (and some big blows) that have taken me here. I have found myself in the midst of depression more than a few times in my life. I tried counseling several times. Eventually, my counselor would pronounce me okay (I would agree - I was fine at the time), and off I would go until the next episode. I tried antidepressants. They worked great to lift my mood. Eventually, I would try getting off the meds, and everything always felt fine at first. The decline back into depression could take years.

It would have been so easy to get back on meds when I felt myself slipping. All it would have taken was a phone call to my doctor. But I've had the notion that I had accomplished something by coming out of depression, (the meds were just assisting me) and calling my doctor would represent a failure on my part. This time I was going to make it.

There's something else as well. At the very beginning of a decline, I feel so incredibly good coming home and being alone. That feeling that everyone gets when they finally return home after being away for a long time - where it feels so good and so right, so comfortable, peaceful, and even blissful to be home. That's the feeling I get, and more, every time I step inside my house. It feels so good, so wonderful, to be at home, all alone. It is delicious. I never recognize that it is the beginning of a dark road until I realize that I am lost... again.

As things stand right now, I won't see a doctor until February, so I won't have the benefit of medication until then. Overall, I am better. At times, I feel like more like myself again. But my mind is still foggy, and I have trouble processing information. Baby steps. But at least I'm walking.

Finally, what I want to say to my family is how much their help means to me. They have saved my life and have given me hope with their effort, time, finances, concern, and love.