Neutral looking down? Or Neutral looking up?

Water metaphors always work well for depression.

Imagine that you’re drowning. You’re face down in murky water with no idea how deep you have gotten. Occasionally, you might float to the surface but it won’t matter, you’ll drown with your back in fresh air and you’ll never even know.

Depression tries so hard to get you to keep looking down. It tells you that the surface is too far away, that you will never get there, so you might as well see what’s coming next as you sink deeper and deeper. At least you’ll see the sharks before they eat you, though you know they will tear you limb from limb eventually. There is no point is facing the sky, because it’s completely out of reach.

It is so fucking hard to look up, to see how far away the air is most of the time, to know what the struggle will be to get there. Looking towards the bottom feels more comfortable, somehow. This is the part where everyone starts to think that maybe they want to be depressed, perhaps they deserve it. It’s when those who have never dealt with depression wonder why you aren’t doing anything to help yourself — why doesn’t she just turn over?!

It’s the sinking depression that consumes your whole mind and body. The why bother? sort of depression.

This time around, I think that Wellbutrin is a acting like a partially-inflated life jacket. It hasn’t stopped the waves from crashing over me, it hasn’t rescued me and dragged me to dry land, but it has forced me to turn skyward. It’s still scary to be under water, but when I do break the surface I can fill my lungs full of air. It’s challenging and exhausting and the pull of the below is strong — facing the bottom and watching for sharks seems like the prudent choice, but Wellbutrin keeps turning me back over and pushing me up to take breaths when I can.

This is the floating sort of depression.

The important thing here is that in both situations, I am actually in the same location. The realities of life have not changed, but my ability to catch my breath gives me enough energy to keep looking for terra firma. It is where self care and coping become viable through the veil of water that clouds my vision.

Swimming away from the metaphor a bit — it’s where I can get out of bed, stay awake, and sometimes be present. I can reel in my frustration and anger before it swallows me. It’s not that it’s easy, it’s just that it’s possible.

I can play with my kids, write more, and be creative. We built a doll-sized fire in a cabinet and my house is coated in glitter (I consider this a positive thing). We played in the snow. Sure, I cried when life kept throwing shit at me this week, but it was appropriate for the situation.

Do not mistake this for being fine. I’m not fine. I shouldn’t be fine. This year has beaten me down repeatedly, and I’m still waiting for the sharks. But I can wait for them and function at the same time, which feels like a win for this relentless year. Life is not an antidepressant commercial, and I’m not out walking on the beach with my sandals casually thrown over my shoulder. I don’t feel particularly funny and couldn’t write satire if I tried. I’m still exhausted, sad, overwhelmed, and even a little hopeless — but it’s more manageable. It feels like a response to circumstance, rather than my brain holding me hostage.

Either way we’re turning towards the sun. – The Nields

*Knocks on driftwood *