Today is a good day. I’ve had a fair number of good days recently, but this morning I woke up knowing that I am getting better. I’ve been scared of getting better in case I relapse into another severe depression, one that I don’t know I’ll have the strength to recover from. I am still a bit scared about this, but I am pretty certain that the three months of cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), the right medication, and some truly positive influences in my life have given me the tools to manage any relapses.
Depression is a part of me, it’s not ever going to not be there so I am learning to embrace it, and see that it can be channelled positively. If I wasn’t depressed, I’d never have started this blog - imagine how much the poorer your lives would be without it, eh?! I think depression makes me funny. I can take the mickey and get away with it because I’m a depressive. It gives me an edge. Depression can give you insights into your own self, not always accurate and quite often self-loathing, but when you can step away from it a bit, you do learn a lot about how and why you think the way you do – after all, all those hours spent away with the fairies inside your own head have to be good for something, right?
I’ve started noticing beauty again. A hydrangea in bloom, my boyfriend’s sleeping face, a giggling child, the smell of oranges. It’s like the world is in technicolour; sights, sounds and smells are in focus. And get this, I don’t hate myself. I think I’m alright, really. It’s been so long since I’ve thought that, and I feel giddy.
I was so proud of myself, walking home from my penultimate therapy session this afternoon. I could have skipped but that would look somewhat out of place on Tottenham High Road, so I contented myself with smiling; beaming actually.
Being happy is hard work sometimes, but it’s worth the effort. Although, what the hell I'm going to blog about now, I have no bloody idea.