When the Darkness Returns
/“I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.” — Dante’s Inferno, Canto I
Nearly two years of blissfully far away suicidal thoughts. About 104 weeks of not feeling like a worthless sack of unmentionable refuse stuffed into a human skin suit. Approximately 708 days not lifting my depressed weight over each and every happy moment of my life. Then it came back, having stalked me like the apex predator it is.
My depression spent two years waiting for a weak moment. Ever patient, it licked its chops while I overstretched myself. My company transferred me to a new crew where I’d be operating heavy machinery while also looking out for the newer groundmen on my crew to make sure they didn’t put themselves in unsafe positions. I was accustomed to working in central Georgia, and now I was driving a fully loaded utility truck and trailer through the northeast Georgia mountains. Lastly, I elected to drive home each night instead of staying at the hotel my company provided. A ninety minute drive seemed like a paltry sacrifice to sleep in my own bed. Besides, I had audiobooks galore. Individually, these changes weren’t much of a problem, but my depression used every minor increase in stress to claw its way back into my consciousness.
New people, new challenges, a meteoric increase in driving, and, to top it all off, Thanksgiving. It was too much.
I woke on Thanksgiving morning feeling normal. Physically tired and pleased that I had a day where my only to-do item was eating. But as that time came around I felt myself isolating from my family and my girlfriend. I buried my nose in a book on the corner of the living room couch. I excused myself for a thirty-minute nap where I could listen to a calming guided meditation. It worked to delay the onset of what was coming, but there was no way to really avoid it. Another thirty minutes of muddling through conversations and I told my Mom that I needed to lay down. I closed my eyes and tried to forget the world before fitfully falling into sleep. My depression was testing me. Probing my exceptionally well-crafted defenses, and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
It took two more days before I couldn’t take my mind anymore.
I called my therapist, my sister, my mom, and my girlfriend. Told them all that I was not having a good time and that I needed 24 hours of uninterrupted time in bed. They agreed to discuss amongst themselves how to best support me while I curled under the covers and dry-heaved with grief.
For the first time in over a year, I called in sick to work. Then my recovery began in earnest.
While it hadn’t debilitated me like this since my final ECT treatment in January of 2020, I hadn’t slacked. I knew what this was and how to up my odds of getting my mind right:
Let my depressed mind run around for 24 hours. It needs to enjoy its dominance before it relaxes.
Rally my troops. It does my mind incalculable goodness to know people are speaking about how to support me even though I cannot speak directly to them.
Super hot shower, comfortable clothes, and lay down while listening to something funny.
Call with my therapist.
Even after all of that, I still didn’t feel good enough to safely drive a gigantic truck all over north Georgia so I called in sick for the next day to bust out stronger recovery tools:
Saw my massage therapist. If I can’t get my mind feeling great then at least I can get the stress out of my body.
Check-in with those that care about me.
Gently clean my bedroom.
Watch something funny. I went with a few episodes of Rick and Morty.
Eat healthy meals and go to bed early.
I woke up the next morning still depressed, but functional. My mental predator in retreat because it saw I wasn’t such easy prey. After a few more relatively normal days I was back to my baseline mood and energy levels.
While I was disheartened and discouraged when I felt my depression return, it gave me the opportunity to employ all the gambits I collected over my years to quickly dispatch it. If I’m ridiculously fortunate then I won’t experience this again, but the chances are better that my depression will find ways through my defenses. Life happens, and I’m happy I have the means with which to recover safely.
