Five days ago, I quit my job. My fancy new job that paid more than I could have anticipated I'd be making in 2017, the job that would help me pay down all my credit card debt (more on that later), introduce me to a bunch of new people that could become friends (or, at the very least, work friends, which certainly counts for something considering how many hours per week us adults have to spend at work), and give me the new purpose and security that routine that I was CERTAIN would yank me out of this SINKHOLE of depression I've been
sitting drowning in for the last nine months. Nine. Fucking. Months. I cannot recall a single morning in 2017 in which I haven't been in pain, haven't wanted to go back to sleep because dreams are my absolute safe space, a place in which even if I'm hurt, it doesn't sting as bad, and more often than not, I'm "living" more in my dreams than I am in my real life. Do you know how many days of successive pain / not-wanting-to-exist that is? 245 days. (Side note: Google is magical.) 245 days is a fuckload of days to be sad for no obvious reason. I
hate depression.
So here I am: a thirty-something, unemployed, super single, semi-friendless, uber depressed woman desperate to hold onto all the spiritual lessons she's spent the last several years learning, but finding myself unable to see beyond my current reality, my current hell. Don't get me wrong - I
know I don't live in hell. I have an extraordinarily blessed and privileged life. It doesn't take more than 5 minutes of NPR, Harvey coverage or news of the famine currently plaguing Africa to know I am fucking LUCKY. I do not deny nor discount that. However. Even with that knowledge, I can also say that I'm in my own personal hell, that which is created entirely in my brain, this beautiful and disgusting organ that has gotten me quite far in life, but currently renders me incapable of seeing the light.
Welcome!
