It’s been nine months since I tried to kill myself. No point in using softer language. I took over a hundred pills hoping that would stop my heart and it didn’t work. I recovered quickly and determined I needed to fight my depression and anxiety more actively than I had been. I was giving into the dread and the darkness. So I did more therapy, exercised more, tried hard to train my brain to stop the negative spirals, and shortly after getting out of the mental hospital I quit the job that was stressing me out.
I gradually started feeling better and then I found a new job that was a much nicer fit for me. I went off my anti-depressant and my anti-psychotic meds and didn’t even notice a difference. I stayed on my Clonazepam to help manage my anxiety because it actually helped me. I’ve been doing pretty well at work and I’ve been writing every day. All of this should add up to me feeling as though I’ve accomplished something these past months.
Maybe I have and I am just being hard on myself. I’m certainly my harshest critic. But the thing I have noticed is that I still don’t feel any pleasure. It was a hallmark of my depression-anhedonia. It’s like being stuck in mud when you really do want to get clean. But you find out that you can’t actually get clean.
I’m doing everything “right.” Taking mental health days off if I need to, exercising as often as I can, watching shows I like, but still I am empty. I don’t think more prescriptions are the answer. I have tried a lot of anti-depressants and they just don’t work for me. And the conundrum is, I wouldn’t say that I am terribly depressed: I am just flat. Very flat and dulled, as though I’m in a light fog and can’t quite see things clearly. I do not know where to go from here.
© 2021 Jeff E. Brown. All rights reserved.