It’s been a rough few weeks around these parts. I haven’t written about it because what is there to say? I’ve been battling extreme anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and the lowest ebbs of the deepest sluggish depression I’ve had in a long long time. I had reached a point in my mental health life where I thought anxiety and panic attacks were now my thing. That the “everything is hopeless, I’ve made all the wrong life choices, we’re going to die destitute and alone” type of depression had moved on to some other poor unsuspecting individual. SURPRISE!
I get bored of writing about my mental health because most of you who come here specifically to read about my life have been doing so for years and I fear I’ll be able to hear your eyes rolling when I tell another story about how my life is a hopeless failure.
Some of you are lucky enough to experience it in real life. My morning walking partner Bronwyn deals with enough shit in her own life but gets to hear me whinge and moan about mine for 45 minutes 3 times a week. That she RINGS me if I’m not out the front of my place by 5am is indicative of her own issues. Weirdo.
But those messages, the checking in with me because suddenly I’m very quiet on Facebook and Twitter (I’ve almost forgotten what Twitter even is), the listening to my silence and sadness is what feeds my mantra during these times – just.keep.going. Fall down seven times, rise up eight.
I am lucky enough to have a support network around me of people who know it is enough to just be beside me, reminding me that I will get through this, that this is not my truth but a heinous lying fiend robbing me of light.
I also have a psychiatrist I trust implicitly. Yes, we’ve spent the better part of six months trying to make me feel OK but in the scheme of mental illness that is nothing. Today we start a new plan and I guess, we wait.