On depression.

Hello, I am back.

I haven't written anything in a month, because honestly, I've been extremely depressed.  The kind of depressed where all I want to do is distract myself with internet memes and hours upon hours of video games, because doing anything else will make me have to look my feelings in the eyes and acknowledge that they are, in fact, real. The kind of depressed where I am actively willing for time to pass because the present moment is nothing but stasis, a holding pattern. The kind of depressed where I stay up until two in the morning because I don't see the point of going to sleep when there's nothing to wake up for.

This has been really fucking hard, y'all.

There was a period of time earlier this month where I had to reschedule my follow-up appointment at the hospital two weeks in a row because of seemingly endless Nor'easters (thanks, Big Oil!) that just so happened to hit the day of my appointment. Prior to that, this appointment had been the beacon of light in my broken-leg-fog; it symbolized progress, and above all, hope. It meant a shorter cast, which meant the possibility of walking, which meant a return to something resembling a functioning human existence.

To have that hope postponed, not once, but twice, well. The first time, I did what any normal person would do, I immediately got very, very drunk. Then I cried for about an hour. The second time, I felt flat, completely numb. I had moments where I legitimately felt that I would be in this cast for the rest of my life. My husband began to seriously worry about me.

When the possibility of a third storm with terrible timing loomed, I thought to myself, If I have to wait another week, I'm not sure if I can do this anymore. I consider myself to be a pretty strong lady, but I was on the verge of giving up completely.

My husband and I watched a documentary about Stephen Hawking the other night, in which he talked about the progression of his ALS, and losing functionality of his body little by little, over time. I looked down at my fiberglass-encased limb and thought, I can't even deal with one broken leg. Then I remembered that I have a mental illness, and some days even getting out of bed feels like the most heroic of achievements.

The third storm never ended up coming. I made it to the hospital this past Tuesday. The short cast is on, and I was given a cast shoe, meaning I am now learning how to walk again. Hope glimmers once again on the distant horizon.