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.
We all know that mental and physical health affect each other, right? I mean, I would like to think that my writing brings the sort of readers who already know that. But just in case you were not aware… they do.
Depressed person: “I feel like shit. My house is a mess and everything is horrible.”
Caring individual: “But look at all these great things you are managing to do!”
I found this essay yesterday while searching for something else. Since today is the fourth anniversary of Rachael’s stroke, it seemed apropos to share it here this morning.
Six months ago, I lost my dad. Or, was in the process of losing him.
The distinction between “here” and “gone” is fuzzy. What I know is that at 4:20 pm on March 28th, I thought the day was as bad as it could get. By 4:25, pm that perspective had been turned upside down.
I love it when people imply that medication is the easy way out of mental health struggles.
First, if that were true, sign me up. I think I’ve put in enough effort in the last three decades to earn a magic pill, no? Certainly, as I approach my five-year therapaversary, I have put in enough hours sitting on my therapist’s couch to deserve the occasional easy solution.
If you’re an extremely perceptive person, you may have caught just an inkling of the fact that I have felt a little reluctant about this whole DBT group thing.