You know you’re depressed when . . . I made a list. I won’t make you suffer it. Suffice to say, I’m depressed. I meet the criteria. I meet the criteria for an increased dose of Latuda. For a look of befuddlement from the psychiatrist. You’re on three mood stabilizers . . . For a safety contract with the IOP therapist.
But it’s a strange depression, mine is. It isn’t, has never been, debilitating. Not completely, anyway. I still show up. I still go to work and crank out lattes and cappuccinos and real macchiatos like my life depended on it. I pour drip coffees as if it will save me. And in some ways, it does. My life depends on distraction; being preoccupied with a task saves me from myself.
The depression doesn’t keep me from work—it makes it hard to go, yes, but not necessarily difficult to perform once present. It does keep me from walking. From painting. From writing. From creativity beyond latte art.
And maybe that is why depression is so life-sucking. Creativity is life. For me. Being able to string together words into a coherent sentence is a gift I treasure. And I’m watching my words being robbed. Today I went mute in therapy. My thoughts wouldn’t fit into words that I could verbalize. That’s how it starts. I’m not a talker. Even so, I have an ability to express myself verbally with care, and it is painful to lose; I worked hard for that ability.
So what’s next? What do I do now? I’ve been on this train before. Coping skills, people. Bring ‘em on. It’s so pointless. If I’m going to get depressed as fuck, I’m going to get depressed as fuck. Why fight? Why fight. Insert huge sigh. I’m so tired.
This is where I’m supposed to write something that has at least a scent of hope. I told you, though, I’m losing words.