The Thin Blue Line

Depression is still a total bitch.  I think that the anti-depressant changes are finally working. It is so annoying though, and frankly pisses me off.  Last week, in describing the fog and wading through knee deep mud to no particular destination, I wasn't too far off course for where I am now.  Although as things start to rebalance I see snatches of sun, hoping against hope that the fog is burning off and going to clear.

I did go see my therapist last week, she is a wonderful person and has helped guide me through some pretty tough waters and gotten me safely through.  She told me something that rattled me to my core, that the PTSD that I managed through changes someone far more than just emotionally.  There are physical changes to the brain chemistry. The hippocampus, amygdala, and the ventromedial prefrontal cortex all function differently in someone with PTSD. So not only do I have to deal with my broken brain, but trauma makes me more sensitive to these swings and there is a chance that I cannot recover as quickly.  I will continue to go down this rabbit hole I'm sure but for now it's scary to know that this may just be the new normal when the anti-depressants stop working, that it'll hit this hard.

Depression is highly personal, some people sleep, some people eat, some people pretend nothing can break them.  One of the things I do is not sleep, but just lay in bed.  I've spent hours laying on my side in my beautiful apartment staring at the wall.  I can tell you that there are roughly 38 rows of bricks from the oak beams to the floor.  There are 10 bricks in the row where the brick are laid long way and 22 bricks where they are laid the short way.  I can tell you how many books are on each shelf, I can tall you the precise location of every knickknack from the hours spent staring at them.  I can tell you the precise location of each vein in my left wrist, the faint blue lines and exactly which way to cut to make sure that the pain goes away.  As terrifying as it is admitting that to all of you, it is terrifying to actually feel it.  I promise it's better this week, I promise I know the things to do when it is that dark.  I promise I have support.  And I got something for me this week on my left wrist to remind me that there is always tomorrow.

Surfing

Trying to avoid the big waves

The swells come closer and closer

Until I'm under, scraping knees and coughing

Salt and I open my eyes to carpet and

The legs of the chair and a sea of tears

The swell moves in again as I drag

Myself to my feet, resisting pull of the ocean

Scan the horizon anxious for the next 

Tsunami as I move slowly to the kitchen

Wading to the sink, despite the storm

There are dishes to be done.

                                                  Michelle Huber 2015