So that’s my summer done. It was a rough one. A combination of a depressive slump and unforeseen expenditures, sprinkled with just a soupçon of pandemic despair kept me from the productivity that I planned on.
Until then I had been whittling away at two novels, working on edits, trying to find their final shapes. Unfortunately my state of mind at the tie didn’t allow for detailed work, and sometimes work of any kind. I formed a little depression nest and waited it out, as one does. As one has to. You do what you can, of course, but surviving those troughs requires patience and faith, something in ironically short supply at the time.
Recently a small change in treatment has bounced me out of it. Or it’s the weather, which has finally become pleasant. Or a combination of both, mixed with the natural surfacing that comes after such a drop. In any case a kind of equilibrium has been achieved. Work has begun again, so I can add editing and outlining to the audiobook recording schedule. I’ve even began a moderate (read: minuscule) exercise program again.
Baby steps, this time. My therapist pointed out that feeling a little better doesn’t mean taking on the world. It’s possible I’ve finally accepted this limitation. Colour me astonished.
What has helped, in a bitter little way, is understanding that the balance I’m currently enjoying is contingent upon a great deal of hard work and treatment. It’s also likely to be a transient thing. The trough is always waiting. The black dog is always at the door. For the nerdy among us, it reminds me of the loophole in Angel’s curse on Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. Having discovered the extent of his curse, theoretically, Angel should no longer be able to experience perfect happiness, knowing what awaits him. In the same way, I don’t think I’ll ever have a good day without remembering how fleeting it might be.
But I have good days, again. Each one is a gift from my past self, who began to look for help, to my present and future selves. I’m grateful to her. She did well.