So, Now It's...

...day two.

No new news to report.

I'm not surprised, I didn't expect there to be anything.

I did have to explain to someone close to me that changes weren't going to happen overnight. When I was asked, "Do you feel any different?" I had to concede that I did not indeed feel different.

I wanted to feel different, but I knew I wouldn't. Still, saying it out loud felt like defeat. It bled into my hope.

I've spent most of my life being a realist. Okay, that's a lie. I spent most of my life being a dreamer. I dreamt of the things I could do or could be if I could just make myself do this, that, or the other. If I could just make myself get out of bed with a smile on my face and set goals, I could accomplish anything.

I believed, for a couple of decades, that I could beat depression if I set my mind to it. You know, the mind that's sabotaging me at every turn.

The mind that's giving me these wonderful ideas that I could be a successful writer. The mind that says, "You could be a great baker! You should open a bakery!" The mind that says, "You absolutely SHOULD do this, because you'd be a huge success! You're special!"

The mind that the next day says, "Are you sure you even want to get out of bed?" The mind that tells me that showers are too much work. The mind that tells me that it's just too much work to be successful, eat a cookie.

My mind knows that I should be taking the dog for walks every day, but won't allow me to get my ass off the couch because it takes effort. The mind that deals with stress and tasks by being overwhelmed and doing nothing.

I worried for a long time that getting treatment for depression would take away my creativity. It is almost as if I am addicted to depression. Much in the same way an alcoholic says, "I can quit any time I want to," yet can't refuse a beer. The way an addict's body wants something; drugs, alcohol, or even food, my body is so used to being depressed that it is afraid to be anything else.

I clinging to hope. Hope is all I have.

~Kim