It's that time of year again. The days are shorter, the nights are longer, and the darkness overwhelms me at times. I made it through the high holidays, which are an annual struggle for me. And still, here I am, trying to make sense of it all.
A couple of weeks ago, my depression hit hard. It was a long week, and I had been concerned my long living depression demon was taking hold once again. It came at me slowly, then all at once.
At my weekly therapy session, I fought tears until I could fight them no longer. I cried, a visceral and cruel cacophony echoing my quiet thoughts. I admitted depression, and the dam broke loose. It was a relief and a defeat all rolled into one.
I fought back tears for the rest of the week. In some senses I knew I was not myself, as depression never allows me to be. I was a shell of myself, a hollowed out piece of a hole covered quietly with plywood. And I was about to crash down.
I had a big weekend planned. I had registered for this big fun steampunk convention in Redwood city, and on Saturday night, I was going to see one of my favorite podcasts recording live. I didn't really want to do any of that, but I didn't trust myself to keep occupied alone all weekend.
Ah, shoot, my thoughts echoed. I'm going to have to take my own damn advice.
