I had a terrifying moment the other day. To many people this moment wouldn’t actually be terrifying, but for someone who’s spent the better part of the past 31 years buried in her own head this scared the heck out of me. A friend shot me a message asking how I’m doing and I replied, “I’m alive.”
Now, as I said, for most people this wouldn’t be a scary moment, but for most of the past few years my response to that question has been, “Not dead.” The terror inherent in optimism, in living, for someone suffering massive depression is immense. Well. I shouldn’t generalize as though everyone thinks and feels that way, but holy Hannah *I* think and feel that way.
Almost so scary as saying “I’m alive” is believing it; being okay with it. I can’t say I’m 100% on board with being okay with it, but I’m far more on board with it than I was two months ago. Right now I’m trying to take this foot by foot, day by day. If I look too far ahead or too far back I’m going to drown in my own head. People I love and trust tell me that’s a bad place to drown.
So, again, I’m putting one foot in front of the other. I’m thinking about getting to coffee (perpetually). Thinking about getting to work. Thinking about getting back to coffee. Today that’s going to be enough. It has to be enough.