Tomorrow I move into a boarding house. The finances are squeaky tight, and the view won't be as fabulous; but it's a forward step. A step I've made on my own. A step that will hopefully lead me somewhere new. It's all happened very quickly, and I'm exhausted. Moving home is difficult even when my brain is working fine - doing it wading through molasses is insanity.
This week has been an exercise in persistence. I've packed in small bursts. A single drawer here, a shelf there, updating lists steadily; and I've done it. I've even packed the first load into the car. This is where my brain actually gives me an advantage. Overthinking everything, means I'd mentally found and packed everything - before I physically started. A holiday weekend gave me time to virtually pack the car a few times, to get the most squeezed in and reduce the trips to two (I hope) - without lifting a finger. I've mentally unloaded and unpacked several times too. It should -should- go smoothly. Then I think I'll sleep for several days.
Like real molasses, conditions change its consistency; and some days are easier than others. This week, it's thick, slow moving, heavy, and sluggish. Good days, it just slows me down instead of holding me back.
Depression has press-ganged Fear to join it this week. Logically I know I'll be OK. I have supportive family, engaged friends, and I'll be much closer to my doctor, counselor, and support group. But - I'm scared.
I'm scared I'll fall back into the hole without realizing it., that it will be too great a fight to get out of it on my own, that I'll lose the ground I've made over the last year and a half. What if I haven't made as much progress as I think I have? What if I never achieve anything again? What if I subsist on welfare for ever? What if? What if? It's an ominous looming sense of potential failure. It's not rational, but it's there. Mentally talking myself out of it is really tiring, because I can't talk myself out of it; all I've been able to do is give myself a list of reasons to ignore me.
As I'm typing this out I'm realizing that it's my Depression working against me. It's using my voice to convince me I can't do stuff. It's using my voice to frighten me out of trying. It's a manipulative bastard that I'm STILL learning how to defend myself against. That insidious little voice, that sounds just like me - telling me I'll fail. Telling me I'm worthless. Telling me all the lies that Depression tells.
Depression is sneaky. It lies. It manipulates. It preys on weakness. It bullies. It persuades. It sabotages. It's a weed in my brain that just won't die.
Derri
This week has been an exercise in persistence. I've packed in small bursts. A single drawer here, a shelf there, updating lists steadily; and I've done it. I've even packed the first load into the car. This is where my brain actually gives me an advantage. Overthinking everything, means I'd mentally found and packed everything - before I physically started. A holiday weekend gave me time to virtually pack the car a few times, to get the most squeezed in and reduce the trips to two (I hope) - without lifting a finger. I've mentally unloaded and unpacked several times too. It should -should- go smoothly. Then I think I'll sleep for several days.
Like real molasses, conditions change its consistency; and some days are easier than others. This week, it's thick, slow moving, heavy, and sluggish. Good days, it just slows me down instead of holding me back.
I'm scared I'll fall back into the hole without realizing it., that it will be too great a fight to get out of it on my own, that I'll lose the ground I've made over the last year and a half. What if I haven't made as much progress as I think I have? What if I never achieve anything again? What if I subsist on welfare for ever? What if? What if? It's an ominous looming sense of potential failure. It's not rational, but it's there. Mentally talking myself out of it is really tiring, because I can't talk myself out of it; all I've been able to do is give myself a list of reasons to ignore me.
As I'm typing this out I'm realizing that it's my Depression working against me. It's using my voice to convince me I can't do stuff. It's using my voice to frighten me out of trying. It's a manipulative bastard that I'm STILL learning how to defend myself against. That insidious little voice, that sounds just like me - telling me I'll fail. Telling me I'm worthless. Telling me all the lies that Depression tells.
Depression is sneaky. It lies. It manipulates. It preys on weakness. It bullies. It persuades. It sabotages. It's a weed in my brain that just won't die.
Derri
Comments
Post a Comment