Confession Time

It’s time I got something off my shoulders.

This year, I’ve been battling my old friend depression. I’ve been pretty open about the fact that I have faced depression since I was a teenager. It’s not something I love, but it’s something I’ve come to accept about myself.

Usually, I hit dips. Short periods in which things are harder to deal with, but I have functional depression. Basically, I force on a smile and fake my way through things. Part of my medication routine for my migraines is an antidepressant, so it helped me out of those dips whenever I hit them.

But not this year.

This year, the dip got deeper. I found it harder and harder to force on the smile. Once, it was so bad that I didn’t talk for two days. Me, the girl nicknamed Motormouth Mindy. I didn’t speak for two entire days.

Getting out of bed became harder. In the past, I could get out of bed at 6:30 a.m., so I could be showered and ready to go by the time Jeff got up at 7. I’d then use the next hour to focus on writing. By the time I left for work, I’d feel proud of how productive I had been, having written a chunk of my next chapter.

Lately, I roll out of bed at 7:50, right after Jeff gets out of the shower. I have exactly 20 minutes to shower and get ready before I have to rush out the door to work. I tell myself that the extra hour of sleep will help me feel more refreshed, but in all honesty, I crawl out of bed feeling more exhausted than I did the night before when I bundled myself under the blankets.

It doesn’t matter whether I sleep for 7 for 12 hours. I still wake up exhausted. Dark circles have taken up permanent roost under my eyes. My shoulders ache, and I feel like nothing I do will ease the exhaustion that I feel.

Even food has lost its luster. I eat because I have to, but not because it tastes good. In the past, when Jeff would ask what I wanted for dinner, I’d say I don’t know because so much was tempting. Now, I say I don’t know because nothing sounds good.

I’m slowly losing the functional part of my depression. I know it. I need help. Don’t worry, I know that, too. I finally gathered the courage to ask for help, because I realized that the antidepressants weren’t enough anymore.

So, why am I writing this? Because I need to acknowledge what you all have likely been seeing for some time. On Facebook, I’ve posted memes that absolutely were cries for help. Between Facebook and Twitter, you’ve seen me down in the dumps due to a string of rejections from agents. Honestly, outside of the pictures of Bitteh and Nevaeh that I post, I don’t know that I’ve posted all that much that could be considered positive for longer than I can remember. I could be wrong, but it doesn’t feel that way.

This is my way of holding myself accountable. If I post this, I have to go see that counselor later this week. That way, when people ask me how I’m doing, I have a genuine answer I can give them, instead of a half-hearted shrug. Also, I’m posting this because I need to get better. I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of the exhaustion. I’m sick of not being me.