I just passed the one year mark of the day I wrote a suicide note and purchased the supplies necessary to carry out my plan the next day, the Monday before Thanksgiving. I thought about it briefly, seated at our holiday table a few days ago, with my husband and two grown sons, but made no mention. I did share aloud how thankful I am for our family.
In 25 years of dealing with major depression, this was by far the deepest and darkest. It has significantly worsened my fibromyalgia. I tried to go back to work after one month leave, but I was in so much pain, both emotionally and physically, I just held on by my fingernails. This also resulted in an almost comical dulling of brain function, not so funny after a while, though. I started this blog to get in writing the struggle I knew was ahead, based on past experience. I’ve been home since mid April, trying not to get COVID because I have a history of lung scarring and damage from a whole different story.
One year later, my depression has improved, some days better than others. I still cry easily but I always have; it’s more frequent than I’d like. Anxiety rears its head occasionally but not 24/7 relentlessly. I have to remind myself that the last two major episodes I’ve been through in 2003 and 2009, the depression wasn’t as bad and it still took about a year for me to get to a healthy baseline. This time we’re in the midst of political and public health upheavals. The fibromyalgia now factors in more seriously than it ever has previously. Patience, patience, patience I whisper to myself.
I am happy to report there is color in my world again, where once it was all black and white.