Living with dysthymia sucks.
Partially because you will never, ever, ever get better.
Partially because you are surrounded by the message that if (you try hard enough/you get on the right meds/you find the right therapeutic tool/the stars align/you give it time/etc) you will get better. (And you want to believe it, so you do.)
Partially because it is variable. You can get used to the good days and then the bad days sneak up and slap you.
I have had so many good days. Since being pregnant it was almost like I wasn’t sick any more. I was happy by default. My life was peaceful.
Until last week when I went on a trip that, while I enjoy it, also happens to be very triggering for my various issues. And, to try to be considerate, and because I thought I was healthy enough to deal, I left my service dog at home.
I couldn’t do it. The depression came back. I was crying into my pillow. I was listless and hopeless and anxious and didn’t care about anything.
But then it got better. I thought it was one episode brought on by the extreme circumstances.
But evidently it’s broken the equilibrium I had. Because now I’m depressed again. And I can’t shake it. It crept in, slow and steady, with no trigger. I guess feeling healthy was just too good to last.
I know I should be grateful for the months of health I had. But I’m not. I resent them.
I resent them for making me think I could have a normal life.
I resent them for showing me how good healthy feels.
I resent them for making me forget all my coping mechanisms.
And most of all…I resent them for giving me hope.
Hope I was better. Hope it could last. Hope I’d found my miracle balance. Hope I had done something, accomplished something, to earn that good time, and that I could keep it up.
Hope I could be normal.
Hope I could be happy.
How could I forget? I will never be better.