This is what I wanted to read in my depression.

by Janelle Hanchett

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a real depression. Two decades, actually. I had forgotten how physical it is. How it pulls your body into the ground, deep into some sort of mud, turns it into a massive thing you’re dragging around. Hollowed out, but somehow so heavy.

It crept up on me, I suppose, the need to sit for ten minutes after showering. I’d sit on my bed, naked, the towel around my head, thinking about getting dressed, knowing it was the next step of my life, wondering how or when it began to feel impossible. I’d wait for the strength.

It never came, but I’d do it anyway. My whole life became a process of waiting for the next task I couldn’t avoid, watching the clock tick by and wishing it wouldn’t.

Somebody had to get my kids from school. Somebody had to shower and get me dressed so when Mac came home I wouldn’t still be sitting there, not dressed. I’d do the dishes to make it look like I had accomplished something. I would send an email or two. Some days I’d send twenty, apologize twenty times, try to set it all up again.

I’d give myself immensely pathetic pep talks, always the same words: “You can do it, Janelle. Come on.” I’d say it out loud. I’d force my body up. I’d yell at myself. COME ON. DO IT.

And I would. But nothing changed. I’d watch hours pass by, days, weeks, and me still sitting there on the goddamn bed—metaphorically, you understand–waiting for some will, believing myself less and less able to do it.


Life was right there. I could see it, but I couldn’t touch it, and it certainly couldn’t touch me.

So instead I stared at it, remembered what it used to offer, scanned every crevice for some indication that I was alive.

It all sounds so dramatic when you talk about it. Self-pitying. Syrup emotion. Even while writing this I want to tell myself to shut the fuck up.

Depression talk is boring, unless you’re in it.

And that’s why I’m writing this. In case you’re in it. I wanted so badly for somebody to see me in that state, in that ground-down, useless place. I found myself looking everywhere for somebody talking about the sitting-on-your-bed-for-ten-minutes thing, staring at a wall as if it could help you, or giving up hope that the wall had anything to offer, growing ever more silent because it’s all so strange.

But I mean that quite literally, the part about looking for something that reminded me that I was alive—as in, something to touch the part of me that felt alive. The part that experiences something. A desire, a spark of interest.

It wasn’t the sadness so much that killed me but the absence of feeling. Like my whole life was rolling out and it was all the same–today, tomorrow, the next day. I’d feel hopelessness, a permeating regret I couldn’t define, and a sadness that felt like meaninglessness. And not a single change on the horizon.

I wrote some notes in my phone once:

It isn’t that I can’t do the things I used to do. It’s that it won’t mean anything to me.

I can write to you on Facebook a funny story. Show you some beautiful architecture. But after I post it I’ll wonder why I do things like that, and I will feel confused. I’ll respond to you. I’ll excuse myself for not responding. I’ll use out-of-date laughing emojis. I’ll meet you for coffee. I’ll teach a writing workshop. I’ll talk to you on the phone. I’ll pick you up from school. I’ll write you an essay. I will definitely make you laugh.

But it won’t mean a single thing.

I wasn’t asking for joy. I was asking for things to mean something again, for it to be a little less hard.


One morning I listened to an interview with a pastor who had been committed to an institution for depression. He said he understands why people commit suicide.

He said it is because they want rest.

My head fell in final recognition. Gratitude.

Rest. Yes.

I wasn’t suicidal. But I would have given anything for some relief from whatever it was inside of me that wouldn’t budge. Just staunchly refused. It looked at me and laughed. “You’ll never beat me,” it said.

And I never did, but I walked through life anyway.

I understand why women “in the old days” used to “take to their beds.” Simply stop.

I’m not moving, they said. It beat me.

They wanted rest.

I could see running out of steam, when an eternal rest is, at least, rest.


It’s obvious now, looking back, that things weren’t right, at all, but I was playing “Is this depression or regular pandemic life?” with the rest of the world. Before that I engaged in endless rounds of “Is this depression or I just moved to a new country?” I was dying for answers.

But everything I’d ever used to figure such things out–my feelings, intellect, will, even, yes, my God—had left me at some point. It was just me, hanging out, reading what other people had to say about it on the internet.

And no matter how many times the world told me this or that, that it’s normal or not normal, seasonal or chronic, depression or regular lockdown life or pandemic burnout—I wanted to find the answers within myself, because that is where I’ve always gone, and that is where I know things, really know things.

To find out if I need help or not, if it will pass or not. How to fix it. How to get through it.

But the singularly consistent feature of this depression was feeling disembodied–fragmented, a head on an alien body.

What I’m saying is I looked inward and found nothing at all.

Past the nothing was an urge to pick up my phone to play a very stupid game. Some history forever replaying. A craving for a cigarette. A recollection of food in the house I could eat.


I’m speaking of this in the past tense, as something having come and gone, and I suppose, in a way, that’s true.

The day came when it didn’t matter anymore if it was circumstantial or clinical. I couldn’t go on like that. I would have returned to drugs and alcohol if I thought it would work for even a moment. My brain started telling me about how we could make this end. I imagined lying down and never getting up again. I felt myself really slipping away.

And it all became extremely simple. I just needed, help.

I’m seeing a psychiatrist and psychologist now, and I went on a medication that gave me back some energy. I get up earlier. I take a shower without much trouble at all. It’s such a difference I had three neighbors say “Oh, you’re up so early!” when they saw me outside before 9am.

I am silly with my kids again. I sit at the table after dinner and talk with the family. Tasks don’t feel so impossible. Sometimes I really feel like doing things. The thoughts don’t replay so fucking endlessly. They are less intrusive, less despairing, less creatively destructive (and yet also somehow unbelievably boring).

But mostly I feel flatlined. It isn’t, shall we say, the life I’d like to be living, the internal self I aim for. It is, however, what it is. You’re welcome for that stunning insight.


I don’t feel “fixed.” I don’t feel “back to myself.” I am made uncomfortable by the idea that a special cocktail of medication will return me to some glorious equilibrium of pre-fucked self.

I consider perhaps that the “self” has altered irrevocably.

I consider the sun coming back. I consider the end of the pandemic. I consider the way my dog would sit by me and stare at me and jump on my bed and put his paw on my chest. I truly do not believe he was away from me for more than ten minutes during any of this. He’s here right now at this very moment.

I consider the way Mac asked me so often if I was okay, and how he looked at me just the same as he looked at me two decades ago. We didn’t know what to do then, either.

I consider how writing left me but here I am, in words.

That’s strange, isn’t it? That here we still are.

There wasn’t a time when I was completely gone. I know that because every time I sat on that bed searching the wall or life or myself for something to hold onto, something to lighten up or enlighten this fucking world, there was a part of me insisting it existed—otherwise, why look? With zero evidence some part of me saw all the way through to a life I couldn’t touch, reached forever for some rest, right here, with you.

I’m not saying I was strong. That I achieved something. What I’m saying is it gives me some hope. What I’m saying is she may become more than a sad pep talk at 1pm. What I’m saying is I wasn’t abandoned. What I’m saying is maybe you aren’t either.

If you know the dark, you know what I mean. I hope I’ve found you there.


He’ll wait as long as it takes. 

50 Comments | Posted in mental health mental non health | May 10, 2021
  • Ruth Davis

    Thank you for these words Janelle. Sending love and waving in the dark.

  • Sarah

    This is it exactly. Thank you.

  • Catherine Forest

    This is the best description I have ever read of what depression truly feels like. This heaviness, this numbness, the meaninglessness of it all, the impossibility of getting up to do anything. Taking a shower felt like climbing Everest without oxygen. I needed sherpas for the most basic things. And at some point, you just look down that crevasse and it looks so appealing. Because you can rest. Yes. We are looking for rest. This is so powerful. Thank you for this.

  • Cheryl Montgomery

    I’ve been in and out of depression since my late 20’s (I’m now 48) and I know EXACTLY what this feels like. I’ve also been on (and off) medication that entire time. I’m currently on medication and still I find myself struggling to get a shower because it can be so damn hard! I’ve also been in therapy for years and that has been helpful, but a job loss, starting of school, and the pandemic have been a struggle, as I’m sure it has for most people. People don’t talk about depression enough and we all feel “weird” and I personally am never really sure if I have it. Because my feelings seem illegitimate for some reason. But I see you and I know you see me. And we can say we see each other. And that helps; it really really helps.

  • J.P.

    This is so familiar, thank you. I haven’t lost all feeling, I don’t think so, at least, but I’ve been walking through deep mud for so long, I don’t remember how not to. I’ve also been on antidepressants for years, so maybe that’s just the floatation device to keep me up. Anyway, I am not making sense, but I feel this and thank you and hope you’re doing ok.

  • J.P.

    Also, I want to send this to so many people – my husband, my sisters, my counsellor, my friends – but I don’t feel like I can because it’s just such a fucking burden to show how bad it is.
    So thanks for creating this space.

  • Lorain

    I know this. I think I’m still there. It’s hard to tell, because I’m so tired of being sick, too. Thank you, though. It’s good to see hope.

  • Kim K.

    I hear you. Thanks for writing. I was about this hit ‘send’ and noticed the title of your last post, about kids in a blown-up world. I think we are all humans in a blown-up world at the moment. Happy for hope.

  • Megan

    Wowwww. Holy crap, this is it exactly. Thank you so much for articulating it all like this, and for sharing it. I hope you find your meaning again soon.

  • Tara

    And you did such a great job leading writing workshops through it all. It’s weird isn’t it? How we can feel like a shell and yet, still check off the to-do list. I have a psychiatrist now too. Didn’t before, thought I was “on the mend” with all this personal development work I’ve been doing. Turns out sometimes the depression just comes back.

  • Leigh

    Oh, I needed this.

  • Brandi

    I have tears in my eyes as I’m writing “thank you.” Yes. This. Exactly this. I am better now than I was, but I’m by no means “good.”

    But that shower thing still happens, if not every day, often enough. I’d like to get to a point where it’s only once a week.

    Thank you.

  • Lisa

    This is the first time I’ve EVER commented on a blog, any blog! I’ve been following you for years and your blog has helped me navigate the glorious shitfight that is parenting. Your words on depression resonated so deeply; I needed to read this today. So thank you, you moved me to break my internet silence. And thank you for so eloquently depicting the numbness and sheer struggle of dragging oneself through the hours in some hopeless attempt to feign normalcy to the kids and keep things descending into chaos. I feel less alone today. Hugs xx All the way from Australia.

  • Amy Gutowski

    Here we still are. Thankful for you. and your writing. and your sweet pup.

  • Sav

    Oh Janelle. That was truly beautiful. Thank you for writing it down.

  • Alison

    If it weren’t for my dog, I’d never get out of bed. Appreciate you. ❤️

    • Sherry

      I’m saving this because while I’m not there now, I’ve been there and I’m smart enough to know I might end up there again. So I will save this so that when I’m there, I can read this and know I’m not alone, that there is help, and that it’s okay to take it.

      The two most powerful words in the English language are “me too”. Thank you for that.


  • Heather

    I know this darkness. We have danced before, and the very real fear lives inside of me that we will dance again. I’m afraid of the darkness. I have not been able to accept it. I’m working on it though. Prozac has helped tremendously. It brought the light back to me. I have so much gratitude for that little pill. It saved my life. The experience of the darkness, and the constant memory and fear of it returning still haunts me… but I know that I can get help. Thank you so much for sharing this. I was shaking as I was reading your experience because I felt it. I’ve lived it. It was as if you were writing my experience. It’s a strange feeling to be comforted by reading about someone else’s pain, but I truly believe that is how we become connected and grow an understanding of each other. Thank you so much for sharing your experience. Thank you for these comforting words.

    • Erica M


  • Kristin Garrison

    It’s been two decades for me, too. Just a few days ago I tried to describe how I’ve been feeling for many months: that I’m walking on a lake of thick ice. Below the surface are all of the thoughts I keep at hidden from myself on a constant basis. I’m walking along and then, crack. Sometimes it’s just a foot that goes in and comes out quickly, but sometimes it’s more substantial and I go under. It feels awful to carry this. I’m sorry you have been suffering so much. Thank you for sharing yourself.

  • Fiona Geoghegan

    Thank you Jenelle. Your insight and honesty and authenticy never ceases to astound me. If you haven’t heard this already you might like it:

  • Maryrose

    Thank you darling brave woman. Thank you. Same-same. I doing my daily steps dicing the steps to mini-micro-minis. If I don’t walk in the AM and beat the man-made noise (traffic, gardeners, tree trimmers) I won’t feel better. If I do walk, I notice one thing—okay two—the mulberry trees and lowquat that are in bloom—and, hey! I remembered today that Byron Katie had a Monday, so Tuesday, Wednesday call in and she has helpers lending an ear…you’re not alone, you’re among friends and friends of friends. And Al-Anon is saving my pandemica-problema. I know you don’t want advice. Sorry. Not sorry. Sorry. Anyway, I see by reading all your above comments that I am not alone in thinking that a lot of people are glad like me that you’re in the world.

  • Emma

    Thank you. Again.

  • Aria Alpert Adjani

    Since I started follow your blog, I have been in utter awe and inspiration by the way you write a damn sentence. Like how I felt when I first read Joan DIdion. Especially her brilliant book Play it As It Lays (have you read that one yet? So good). The words and feelings and humor flow out of you like jazz and hit us like a knife to the gut. A reflective cut that hurts but welcomed. I have never read such a heartbreaking and truthful and relatable description of what depression is like. The ennoui of it all. The useless pep talks, the lack of feeling for everything around. But you, YOU with your perseverance, observation, wonder and ultimately your humor that, deep down, you never lose too much sight of. Thank you for this piece. And thank you for putting it out there despite all of it. I think we all, especially us women, us mothers, have endured more in this past pandemic year than we ever signed up for – coming through it stronger and wiser because of the challenges, and ultimately better mothers and women. Holding each other closer from the bond we all weave. That is how I feel about you and this tribe of badass mothers that flock to your blog. And you bet your sweet ass, we are holding you close and up and though. You are not alone. But, I think you know that already.

  • Liz

    Showers are so hard I just can’t always do it. I lost my job in January (downsized/reorg. I was ready to quit for months, but still. ) I loved so much about that job before the reorg, and being let go has been a big hit to my ego. I have 3 teens. Someone is ALWAYS home. I miss alone time. I feel bored more than anything else during this pandemic, and even now that I’m fully vaxed, I prefer to avoid social life. I have a root canal today and it feels like something almost exciting- something different. I’m glad spring sunshine is here, it does help. One day at a time.

  • Sharon

    I cannot remember a time in my life where I wasn’t fighting depression. And when you wrote about how you just wanted someone to see you, I got that. I know that feeling. I understood the sitting on the bed, struggling to take the next step. Several years ago, I could not really keep my house clean. I remember staring out of the window at how neat and pretty the neighborhood looked and wished for that order in my house but being unable to galvanize the energy to do anything about it and how stupid that made me feel. And here is how insidious this disease us. A year ago, I was feeling well and motivated. I cleaned my house because I know that mess us a trigger for me. Victory, right? Nope. I thought of how proud my mother would have been and how I wished she could see it but she passed away 18 years ago and so I spiraled for three days. Fuck depression.

  • Sandi

    I feel you. In my soul.

    Thank you.


    It’s sad to read all the comments of people who have felt/feel the same and have no hope or outlet. You’ve given words to a misery that can’t communicate. You’ve painted realistic artwork for a dark scene. Depression is a lonely place. It feels like you’ve fallen into a pool with the winter cover on it, and it slowly pulls you under until you nearly drown but not quite.

    Don’t stop taking the medication because “you feel better.” That only proves it’s working. Get help “stepping down” from it. Don’t stop taking the medication if you gain a few pounds, that’s a side-effect no one really talks about either. If you have to choose between being fat and your kids, TRY to pick your kids.

    Thank you for using your platform. No need to reply–or read the replies. Get well.

    • Heather

      Those words.. “if you have to choose between being fat and your kids, try choosing your kids.” This resonates with me so deeply. Prozac saved me in every way possible but I have gained so much weight from taking it. Every day I tell myself I can’t take the weight gain, I hate looking at my body. But at the same time the thought of going back to that dark place is so terrifying that I would rather have the weight. I can’t live in that nightmare just because I stay thin. When I’m in the depression so deep I stop eating. I become sick. I get so many compliments from people about how thin I am. If they only knew that I am on deaths doorstep. My kids just want me to be there for them and not be sad. They don’t care if I’m fat.

  • Michele

    WOW! I’m a 63 and had depression most of my life. A few hospital stays, EMT in my 30s, medications to numerous to mention. When the darkness hits, there’s no rhyme or reason. It just shows up and you say “Oh shit” to yourself yet once again. And there’s nothing you are anyone can do. The guilt is enormous as those close to you try endlessly to make you feel better.
    Janelle, in all my years of searching and extensive research, I’ve never heard it as perfectly described in my life. From one fuckup to another (That’s a compliment!), thank you, thank you, thank you

  • Hilary Perez

    Welcome back, Janelle. I’ve missed you.

  • Amy

    I wrote this… in my head, 6 years ago.

    Going on Citalopram saved my life, literally and in so many other ways. I can now function, and take pleasure in things that seemed so distant and meaningless back then – my work, my friends, my family and my kids – mostly my kids. I sought help primarily because of them but found myself again in the process. I don’t take it lightly, I know the black dog is never far away, and sometimes I feel it breathing down my neck , but I’ve managed to keep it at bay for the last 6 years and for that I am grateful.

    Sending love and strength to anyone who has been/is there. Xx

  • Molly Coffin

    Oh yeah. Yep. Been there. I have told friends, exes, clients, and myself, when faced with reluctance to get treatment/meds: it doesn’t have to be this hard. There are so many different kinds of treatment out there. Some depression is harder to treat than others, but it’s only untreatable if you give up. Thanks for sharing with us.

  • Suzanne

    Thank you so much for this. I’ve never suffered from deep depression, so I have trouble understanding it when people I love are going through depression. Right now my son is going through something and, like you, I have no idea if it is pandemic depression, stress from doing a year of college from home, or deep depression (probably all of the above?). I don’t know what to do or say, so I just worry and try to get him to agree to get some help.

    Your words are helping me navigate this, and I am so grateful for your honesty.

  • kathy sokol

    I am pretty better now, but I’ve been there and it’s so hard to keep hanging on. You are amazing Janelle. You’ve got this.

  • Susan

    Hi Janelle, thank you for sharing how you felt. I identified with you sitting on the bed waiting to get dressed.
    My hurdle was sitting on the bed, trying to get up and walk to the bathroom. Sitting on the side of the bed hoping my bladder would hold up until I got strong enough to walk to the bathroom.
    And every day has to start with a shower, even though I am retired. I need the shower to shake my self alert enough to start my day.

  • Farrell

    Thank you for being so honest. This was beautifully written. Hang in there.

  • Jen

    Thank you, so much. From the depths of my soul, I feel this. Hugs and much love to you.

  • Amanda

    Thank you so much for sharing this. I’ve recently been informed that I have textbook depression and anxiety. My first reaction was to be completely insulted and offended.
    When I look at it from the outside, it’s always been there, so obviously there. I’m 41 and I’ve spent my whole life denying it to myself and hiding it from the world.
    Acknowledging out loud that I’m a fucking mess is one of the hardest things that I’ve ever done.

  • Tracey L

    I see showering is a common theme here. I dread it. I have not been diagnosed with depression, I imagine if I went to a MD I would be diagnosed with it. The last 5 yrs have done a number on me. Politics, 2 family members deaths, foot surgery, oldest child moving home, pandemic and the list goes on. I am home with 3 young adults who don’t get along and a husband who seems to be retired from being a father and a husband. No one wants to hear my tales of woe and I feel foolish telling them, as others have it much worse. It is hard to be excited about things when everywhere you turn someone is complaining. I sit a lot and stare out the window and feel like I accomplish something when I clean up the kitchen. My house is dirty, I am never alone and I am so, so tired. The bright sides are my two dogs, books and I’ve started painting canvases of flowers and birds that I am going to hang on my fence. So it is nice to know I am not alone.

  • Jennifer Miller

    Hi Janelle, this totally resonates with me. May I ask which medication is helping you with having some energy again? I was on Lexapro for 8 months and it helped greatly but it had some side affects that I didnt want anymore so I discontinued. I’m starting to feel the creep and pull of depression again and am considering trying something else. Thank you =)

  • Andreina

    I described it recently as “walking through oatmeal neck deep.” And yes, all this. Thanks. I’m sorry you were in the hole too. But thanks for naming it for us.

  • Amy

    Janelle–you know. You wrote it beautifully. It’s like a heavy curtain of darkness that falls down between you and the rest of the world, even though it could be the sunniest day. Twenty years ago, when I first started realizing that my depression had a name, I read “The Noonday Demon, An Atlas of Depression” by Andrew Solomon. I recommend it for anyone dealing with depression, but in no way am I putting the burden of reading it upon someone–adding anything to the weight of depression becomes just another layer of something you can’t do at that time. But it’s another resource that exists, along with your honest post, to let us know that there are others hidden behind heavy curtains, not only ourselves.

  • Sigrid Kenmuir

    There’s nothing like depression, is there? It’s like being in a glass box. You can see out, but you can’t touch anything, and no one and nothing can touch you. You want to reach out, you want to be involved, take some joy (or anything, if your depression leans numb rather than sad), but you just can’t. Your loved ones try to reach you. They try to help. But you don’t know how to interact with it. Through a cocktail of antidepressants, sleeping meds, and now ADHD meds, I’m starting to feel like my old self. But never totally. And maybe, as you say, my old, un-fucked up self no longer exists. Thanks for this, Janelle. Thanks for everything.

  • Kathy Potvin

    For anyone who struggles, my bro (who struggles AND is a neuropsychologist)sent me this. This new research in depression caught my attention. One, because it kinda runs in the family, and two, because it’s good news for anyone who ”catches” depression and all those who care about them.

    The story appeared in I edited it heavily. Now it’s pretty short, easier to assimilate. “Read it if you need it, if you don’t just pass it on … ‘
    Recent studies confirm that depression causes inflammation in humans. The immune system reaction is a systemic response, such as, depressed people produce extra white blood cells and in general show a heightened immune response.
    “Inflammation is an immune response to infection or other stresses on the body. High inflammation levels are associated with autoimmune disorders and can be risk factors for cardiovascular illness or other ailments. The release of these immune cells into the bloodstream prompts production of still more immune cells elsewhere in the body.
    “Then the immune factors circulate. One negative result of that is they are able to go back and either change the blood-brain barrier, or move across the blood-brain barrier, or somehow transmit the signal ― the information ― across the blood-brain barrier and perpetuate the depressive systems by changing the function of brain areas responsible for interpretation of emotions,” said Pariante, professor of biological psychiatry at the Institute of Psychiatry, Psychology and Neuroscience, Kings College London.
    This makes the body believe it is under threat. That causes still more stress reactions; these repeated physical responses create a negative feedback loop, in which inflammation produces a still more robust immune response that perpetuates and exacerbates depressive symptoms.
    So what?
    “…inflammation dampens the effectiveness of today’s antidepressants by reducing the brain’s production of mood-determining chemicals such as serotonin.
    [which might explain why] “… around one third of depressed patients don’t respond to any of the available medication.”
    “… while we are a long way from having a silver bullet that can help all depressed patients,” he said, “but we are investigating how to break this vicious cycle. Then we could really improve the treatment of these patients.”
    Bottom line- Wrap up:
    1 – This research means that doctors will be able to either find or confirm depression by simple tests in the office, tests for the physical markers of depression
    2 – It will end with producing a new type of medication (vs our serotonin-directed ones) that will be effective for Everyone with depression
    And there you have it.

  • Kakki

    I work in a school and this year has been beyond hard. My coworkers saw how much I was struggling and surprised me one day with some flowers. And I felt- nothing. It was just another thing that happened that day. And I went home and tried to cry because I couldn’t even dredge up any feeling of anything. And that made me feel worse because I could not FEEL how loved and cared for I am at work. I was appreciative because I knew I needed to be. But I didn’t feel it in my heart or soul. And that scares the shit out of me. I go through the motions of self-care hoping desperately one day they will work. And I try very very hard to love the little girl inside me the way I love my children because I know she is so very scared. It helps knowing I am not alone. It helps knowing there are so many other warriors out there doing what needs to be done while feeling/not feeling.

  • Elaine

    Janelle. I got on your instagram looking for a photo of George’s beautiful hair to show my kid who is in need of inspiration. I found this instead. I haven’t been on social media because I thought it might be what was killing me, and it partly was. Partly. Most days I still feel like I might die. For me it’s the laundry room. There’s a little Ikea step stool and tears that won’t stop. There’s a baby in my lap and I’m pleading “please.” But I don’t know what I’m pleading for. Yes, a rest would be nice.
    I look at the prescribed lexapro in my cabinet every morning, but I dont take it yet because I’m pregnant. So there is some part of me that recognizes there is more to live for. That maybe it won’t be this way soon. Please. A little boy who won’t experience withdrawal symptoms at least.
    I went for a walk the other day and it was warm and I felt the heat on my shoulders. The special needs kid picked a flower for his toddler sister. There was a yellow butterfly. And I felt those things too. Mostly though I feel rage. I wake up and feel it stirring in my stomach. Put on a face and serve up the breakfast. Consider taking the dirty dishes, one by one, and throwing them at the wall. But then there would be their faces. I can harly look at them these days. They tiptoe around me, prodding. How will she be today? So I head for the laundry room instead.
    I’m sorry you’re here too, and I’m glad you got help. As always, thank you for writing.

  • Petra

    Find YouTube Videos with Dr Gabor Mate on his explanation of depression not being the problem but an attempt to solve the problem.

  • Liz

    Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  • Risa

    I am so grateful for my medication, and decades of therapy, and honestly? a little for my ADHD. I get like this… But I don’t STAY there, thanks to meds and therapy tools and, frankly, my hyper squirrel brain going BORED NOW and making me go look for the dopamine.

    …kiddo helps immensely, too. Not allowed to rest until kiddo is launched, at the very least, even if there’s no personal goals, or point to it all. They lost their dad, I don’t get to go too. They *might* have been better off without me, if the brain weasels are right – but not with the better parent almost 8 years ashes over the cliffs above Stinson Beach. They’re stuck with my struggling ass, and dammit, I will NOT leave them completely abandoned. I can’t teach them how to be a fully functional human, but I can show them how to drag themselves back off the ground and spit out the blood after Murphy’s kicked their teeth in for the umpteenth time.

    Besides. Lying on the ground gets boring.