Depression DID kick in after the pulmonary embolisms of New Year’s fame. I’m told that is normal after major heart/lung issues, and so I’m not too concerned. This depression is a little easier than others – no hints of a hospitalization looming! Suicidal thoughts are present, but they are less frequent and less insistent. Plus, I’m so Very Clear that I want to live, as a response to the blood clots that could have done more serious damage. I’m still afraid of dying, and apparently I came close (well, was on the path?), and I don’t want to, despite the lying suicidal thoughts that persist. But I persist harder.
That is my mantra, ever since it was said of Elizabeth Warren, “Nevertheless, she persisted.” I persist. That’s what I do. Call it strength, call it bravery; those are not what I feel. I persist. I wake up everyday into a depressed reality with little to no sense of purpose, and I make a day of it: I do errands. I bill insurance or go to the doctor. I do housework. I watch too much tv. Sometimes I’m crafty or arty these days, as I watch tv. I cuddle my sweetheart. Then I go to bed into broken sleep, despite sleep meds. I wake up the next day to do it again. I persist.
I wish I could do more. I don’t have mental energy for more, even when my body wishes for it. Yet I persist in the belief that I will be capable for more someday. Some days I try. Some days I’m able to add something to errands and do something fun. Or I can go for a short walk to satisfy the itch in my body to move more (This happens infrequently as I live with severe chronic pain after a long spinal fusion as a child).
So even though I’m depressed, I persist. And there is some small glimmer of hope that persisting will lead to something more, someday. Persisting is boring, fwiw. But I’m alive.