What does it feel like? Depression feels like gray. It’s not black; no, black would be death. And white would be life. Depression is gray, shrouded in the spotlight of misunderstanding, suspended between the two exits.
Today there is no escape. Sure, there have been a few flickers of cornflower, powder and sky, but quickly the gray sucks the color out of them. I’ve been in bed at least three times today, not including when I first woke up. I ambled out to the living room, sat down with a mug of coffee and turned on the TV. The news felt too overwhelming a subject to tackle, so I turned to Rizzoli & Isles. I enjoyed the show, until the gray swooped in and made me question why I thought it was a good idea to get out of bed.
I’m afraid of depression because it creeps up on my out of nowhere. I can sense that it might be near sometimes, but by then it’s almost too late to get away. Today I made a mental list of my favorite things, had my husband do the interviewing. Went for a walk. Ate chocolate. Got busy doing chores, read a novel and spent time with the dog.
I am getting through today but I’m so worried about tomorrow. Knowing that I’m getting out of the house to go to my part-time job lightens my mood a bit. But the fact that I can only get out and do something productive when I do the one thing I despise more than anything in the world is just depressing.
The PTSD that came from teaching years back still talks to me in its thin, reedy little voice, making even driving by a school troublesome. Being inside a school for a whole day brings shades of depression back in heavy waves on good days. Going into a day of teaching already battered by depression feels like I’m willingly walking into a splintered mind.