104: months since my depression diagnosis.
53: times that I’ve written about depression here on this blog, which is even older than my diagnosis.
4: months since I quit my last job.
6: concrete tools I have at my disposal to manage depression, all of which I’ve been throwing at it for months (years?) trying to be a fully functioning human being on more days than not.
25: percent of the time I feel like it’s working.
4: years I’ve lived in Pittsburgh without a local physician or therapist working to manage my depression.
3: primary care providers I’ve had appointments with who found no reason for my overwhelming lack of energy, excessive sleep, and rapid weight gain.
12: hours I slept last night, for no apparent reason.
1: jobs I told myself I had to, absolutely had to, complete today. No matter what, I promised myself I’d finally get an appointment with a local psychiatrist.
26: minutes spent on hold with the first attempt.
17: offices called after my first attempt failed, in search of psychiatrist accepting new patients without primary care provider referral.
8: days until my appointment.
The struggle is constant. The losses seem to mount higher than the triumphs. I told my sister this morning, I feel like I’m sitting on horse, smacking away with a riding crop and kicking my heels yelling, “giddy up! giddy up!” and my body is just looking at me with big, woeful eyes, munching grass, going nowhere.
It feels like the darkness is actively working against me, telling lies and making empty promises, whatever it has to do to convince me to just lay down, just stay put a little bit longer.
But I can’t give up. I have two kids who need me and one man who deserves to have me keep fighting.
And today I won the battle.