I’ve been on anti-depressants for about 2 months.
On the one hand, I’ve been far more productive than I’ve known it possible to be in my life. I’ve been able to work on cleaning and organizing my house. I’ve been able to do laundry. I’ve been able to write and make art and live a life I didn’t think possible. Treating depression with medication has been immensely helpful.
It’s still a cycle, I guess.
I come to my blog and sit and write 1,000 words about coming to accept my body, flaws and all, and have to stop for the intense hatred and shame and anxiety over my own existence that I feel.
I stare at the blog post I started months ago, “The process of becoming,” and can’t write a single word, because even though I know we are all of us becoming, I still feel immense shame and guilt for existing, let alone becoming, and especially for not having already become, already arrived, already completed.
I sit with my pencil hovering over a blank page, hand trembling to match the trembling of my lips as I fight tears, unable to think of anything positive to draw or write, unable to clear my head enough to do it.
I forget the importance of self-care. I forget that fighting the sadness is a fight, and that while my anxiety and depression medications help (and boy, do they help!), they can’t solve it on their own. They can’t solve me.
I can’t stop fighting just because I’m taking pills. I still have to be gentle with myself. I still have to allow myself to not be okay.
I still have to breathe.
Treating depression isn’t just about taking medicine. It’s about taking care of me, as best as I can, even if that means I have to reset some of my goals.
And I know that people who really care about me will accept that. I just have to learn to accept it as well. To accept myself as well.