Those who know me personally pretty much understand that I have suffered with depression (off and on, mostly on,) since I was 12 years old. I’ve also dealt with an anxiety disorder since I was 16. This being said, I have had my dark days and I have had my lighter ones.
My grandmother passed away two months ago. Two very long, grueling, months ago. What most people don’t know about this time is that only a month before, I had suffered a major depressive episode. My grandmother dying was the nail in the coffin. I felt like I had been shattered. It’s hard to admit that I was so weak. I found it difficult to see the better in life. Why would somebody try so hard to have accomplishments if within seconds everything, and every one you love, can be taken away.
I don’t think like that anymore. I can’t explain how recovery works. Recovery isn’t something that can be learned in books or taught. It isn’t something a psychologist can make happen. I thank them for trying but it’s different than that. Recovery, along with acceptance, is a process that involves understanding that the bad moments can feel horrible, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be good moments. Recovery is deciding to enjoy the little things. I know it sounds ridiculous but recovering isn’t about suddenly feeling better. There is no pill. There is simply moving forward, one step at a time, regardless of how hard those steps are, and then one morning you’ll wake up and you’ll realize, it’s not so bad. The next day it may be a little bit better.
It’s worth it.