World, I have not been doing very well.
I sleep ten hours a night, yet dread leaving bed (air mattress, really), struggle to concentrate on anything of any importance, and find suicidal ideation creeping back into my daily life. My avoidance is as spectacular as ever.
Moving to Germany hasn’t made my depression cycles any worse, naturally, but my abysmal German language skills and general broke-ness (say, had you heard that moving overseas is expensive?) leave me more isolated than ever before. Most days, I don’t talk to anyone but my husband. That’s putting a lot of pressure on one relationship, especially considering what non-delightful company I’ve become.
The Dirty Normal describes feelings and stress responses as cycles or tunnels: you don’t flit in and out, you have to plow through. I’d add that, in my bleakest times, depression feels more like a rickety old mine shaft; you can never forget the possibility of being crushed to death.
This is a tunnel. When I emerge into the daylight, I will look for a therapist, drugs, or whatever the hell it takes. Yes, I will probably hate that. But for too long, I’ve been pretending there won’t be more tunnels, more spiraling downward. I have to figure out once and for all what is happening to my brain, and what can be done about it. Depression has already cost me too much of my life.
Ian and I attended a kettlebell class last night. I would suggest that if you’ve spent, oh, 80 hours per week in bed for a month or more, jumping into a two-hour kettlebell class will be just a tad abrupt. Oh the pain, the pain. I nearly blacked out within the first fifteen minutes.