On Depression (Again)

 I'm back on SilverCloud. 

After a few weeks (months?) of debating with myself whether I should reach out to GP again, I instead self-referred for talking therapies and after yet another telephone appointment where I went through my history, current state and reasons for the referral, I panicked at the thought of more targeted help and asked for the one that I've done before and can at least try and approach in my own time. 

I've had limited success (but not no success) with CBT before, so I'm trying my best to approach this as an opportunity to improve on previous effort, become more aware of my cycles of thought-feelings-behaviour, and just find somewhere, anywhere, to interrupt the spirals before I hit the bottom. 

It is, still, frustrating to read the exact same things again, to skim through the theory because I know how this is supposed to work, I know the model that is the basis for the therapy and I know the techniques that I'm going to be asked to use. As I said in my assessment appointment, I know what I need to be doing, I just can't seem to keep it up. And that becomes another stick to beat myself with, another "see? I'm useless". 

I am just about managing to stick with my morning exercises ("but I'm doing the easiest possible level"). The heat waves are interrupting my running schedule ("but I don't always do the full run anyway") and all my attempts at improving my diet keep failing ("I just don't have any willpower"). Finding the time/motivation to meditate or practice mindfulness is always a struggle ("it's like I don't want to get better"). 

I still go into work regularly ("but I don't do anything there") and I still see friends. I've got my regular social engagements, and say yes to as many others as people suggest. I'm planning on going away twice in August - including hopefully to see a football match even though I find both traveling and the idea of being in a crowd of strangers terrifying. I read every day, I do puzzles, I walk the dog, I listen to podcasts and music and watch YouTube videos, sometimes even ones that aren't by the Green brothers ("but none of that is helping"). I joined more Discord servers ("but I'm too shy to join in"). I do at least some housework ("but not enough"). I buy myself things I want and give money to charity ("isn't that supposed to make me happy?"). 

I keep making plans for the future ("but I might not be here") and keep getting out of bed every day ("but what's the point?") and keep trying all the things that are supposed to help because the alternative, not doing all that, feels too much like giving up. And while I am not sure I will ever be "better", I don't want to get "worse". 

I find it so hard to find hope, despite studying the masters, that hope feels forever out of reach for me. But in the absence of hope, there is at least sheer stubbornness, and I think that's what's driving me at the moment. 

Lasts, and firsts

 Yesterday marked five years since I last woke up next to her. Five years since I last kissed her. Five years since I last told her I loved her.

I know these must have happened, because they happened every day, but I don't remember them. I didn't know it would be the last time, so they didn't have enough emotional salience to stick in my memory. I think this must be true for most "last times". Sure, sometimes you know in advance - the last day at a job you are leaving, saying goodbye to a terminally ill relative, a last date before you break up. But mostly we don't. I don't remember the last time I read my son a bedtime story, or the last time I was able to pick him up and carry him. I just assumed there would be another time, and there wasn't.

Firsts are much more memorable, because you know they are firsts. "This has never happened before," your brain goes, "better hang on to this." I remember my first kiss, and my first kiss with Jess. I remember our first meal - bacon with plum sauce and stir-fried veg - and I remember the first tine I heard a Weird Al Yankovic song - it was that evening. (No wonder I fell in love with her.) I remember my son's first recognisable word - "Eyeore" - and his first day at school. 

But, admittedly, sometimes firsts get lost in the mists of time too: I don't recall my own first day at school, or even at university. I don't remember when I first told Jess I loved her, or when she first said that to me. I don't know what our first text messages or emails were. And some lasts also stick in the mind: I remember my last words to Jess, although I don't remember her last words to me. I do at least have her last DM to me: "You are the best. Thank you." 

I don't remember the context. I don't need to. In the absence of other memories, those are good last words. 

[Fiction] Date Unavailable

 Janine first noticed the issue with her calendar app when she went to add a meeting in two weeks and couldn't select that day. She tried opening it up and scrolling in day or week view, but it wouldn't go past the 16th. She assumed it was some weird glitch and decided to try again in the morning.

The next day she still couldn't get it to work, so dropped an email to IT. By the end of the day, the case was closed with instructions on how to add an event, which she tried following to the letter just in case she'd been doing something stupid. It still wouldn't work, so she emailed them again.

A few other weird things happened that week. Her coffee subscription service was cancelled, and when she tried to restart it, the website kept throwing out errors. When she rang the dentist to book a check-up, it all went well until the receptionist tried to enter it into their system and then all the appointment slots "vanished" and they were so sorry, could she call back later? And despite back and forth with IT, and finally a Zoom call with a confused and frustrated technician, the calendar glitch could not be resolved. 

When the 16th came, Janine was walking her dog when she got an unexpected notification from her bank telling her she'd received money from her landlord. The transaction was labeled simply "refund" and was about half the amount of her monthly rent. Confused, she texted her landlord, but was interrupted by a string of further notifications as one after another, all her direct debits were cancelled. She called the bank helpline and finally got through to an actual human being who told her that her account was marked for closure. 

Frustrated, she asked how and why, as she stepped into the road. She did not hear the answer. She did not see the truck.