Well, that was a Big One, a Black Brain-Storm that hurricaned up my coast. When I say “Big,” I mean lengthy. I manage all right with depressive episodes that last a couple of weeks, but when they stretch out longer than that, I… well… there’s no other way to put it. I lose my shit.
I also lose time. How long did it take to sweep through my mental landscape? A month? Two? I lose the shape of individual storm cells, delineated by these little bursts of clear sky. They start to moosh together until it seems as if Black is all there is. I know that’s not true, but I can’t remember the sunny skies unless I look back in my journal or ask someone else.
The Big Fat Lying Brain starts to sound really savvy. Some of those awful thoughts might be true. After all, they’re just an Edward Gorey version of what usually rummages around my gray matter. Paranoia trickles in like lizard sweat. It’s really not a pleasant place, my brain.
How-some-ever, the inside-skies cleared yesterday, so I’ve got time to get ready for the next blow. I will be taking a drawing class for the next three weeks during the time I would normally see my therapist (it’s one of those Good News/Bad News situations), but she’s available by phone, so I shan’t worry.
I’m also trying to take teeny-tiny steps in a positive direction: drink a glass of water when I get up in the morning, commit to swimming on Thursday mornings, and choose Subway instead of other take-out.
I’m still searching for the Muskogee Routine and hope this will be a start. Small additions. Tiny sandbags in the dike wall.
I always feel better with a plan, whether I can carry it out or not. Incremental turns toward wellness feels gentle.
And I’m all for a Gentle Adventure.
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