It’s 2:00 p.m. on a Thursday. I’ve been in bed for about an hour, and this is the point when I decide to listen to the demon at his strongest and turn over, or make an attempt to defy him and get up.
At 5:00 a.m., I was fine. Around 8:00, I began to be low. At 10:00, the demon brought me past ghosts to fight. At 11:00, it brought me a bad period in life to think about, and I succumbed to buy something online. At 12:00, I realize I forgot my 4 meds, and take them. I know that it will be at least 2 hours until I feel OK enough to do something.
So now, 2:00. The demon is saying, “You still feel like shit. Wait until 3:30, at least.” At 5:30, my husband will be home, and I am in yoga pants and an army surplus t-shirt. I want to have some food ready.
I fling the covers off, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and drop onto my feet before the demon knows it’s been betrayed. As I walk down the stairs, a small, invisible butterfly passes me to say this could be a blog post. At 2:45, I boil water for pasta, and at 3:15, I finish cooking. I start the post.
The demon says, aren’t you being too honest? And even if you’re honest, isn’t depression a cliche? Is this an excuse for self-pity? People don’t really give a damn, or want to know your boring shit.
The demon’s last shot is its most potent one. It knows that I write personal topics or essays and later deeply regret doing them. It’s now 3:40. I get the laptop and start typing, and the demon asks if what I’m saying needs to be said, just like it has been by so many people, so many times, even if no one reads it or feels moved.
With that, the demon catches my attention and kindles a tiny flame. Does what I’m saying need to be said? I’ve written journals for nearly 30 years because my mind needed to say things, even if it’s only to a person who cursorily scans a book or two of content after I’m gone and wonders at how absolutely boring and unexciting it all is.
I think of all the many times the demon has changed the course of my life. It’s happened less since I started journaling. If I can only write enough words, maybe I can quiet the searing doubts that depression brings.
The pills dull the pain, but they don’t stop the thoughts. The writing does.
Lo Scriviti 