In September, we hit rock bottom. Life was not just hard, it had become impossible. No matter how hard I tried to simply power-through, I just didn't have the energy to keep moving forward, let alone keep tackling the ever-increasing uphill struggles life was throwing at me.
My Sufferer had hit his lowest point in the six years I have known him. The decline had started to gather pace in August but come September, he was there - ultimate low - and I was stuck down the hole with him. And yet, we couldn't have been further apart if we'd have tried.
I tried to tell him that we were at a breaking point and that he was definitely in a bad place. He tried to tell me he hadn't changed in those six years and that he had always been the same. He most certainly hadn't. I knew that wasn't right.
I told him when he had been at his best in recent years - just after the birth of our son (now 2 years old). He was my rock. He was amazing. And I had told him that. I reminded him of that - not to make him feel guilty but because I couldn't let him believe what he was telling himself. It was the only way I could think of showing him that he wasn't thinking clearly. And that he most certainly wasn't my rock. [Made me think of this song - it's not a cheerful one!]
At that time, I hadn't done any research into depression. I resented it too much. It already drained far too much of my time and energy - investing any more of my time in it felt as though I would be encouraging its greed, its thirst for my life-force. I acted in the only way I could and I guess that was the non-physical equivalent of picking him up and shaking him!
Around that time, the #write31days project tottered past my nose via a newsfeed post and I was desperate to reclaim some small amount of my life. The idea of writing each day for 31 days through October was incredibly appealing. The guidelines suggested choosing a topic that was of personal relevance to current life. Something you needed or wanted to know more about. Well, that was an easy decision. Depression.
I figured I'd use the project as a way of releasing my thoughts and feelings - ranting through the rough bits. And there were so many - we really didn't know if we would make it through together or apart.
But then, things changed. Not overnight but over the last month or so. Doctor's appointments, medication discussions, mindfulness courses, regular exercise...and a whole host of effort on the part of my Sufferer to regain control. To put the black dog on his lead. To let him bark without running straight to him.
It means that I have had far less to write about than I thought I would have.
On the immensely pleasing plus side though, I have spent my time thus far researching the subject, now that it isn't stealing all of my time. And I have been sharing that in the hope it might just help someone out there.
Right now, life is good. The black dog has gone from St. Bernard to chihuahua - still here, but taking up less space in everything we do.
There is hope for you all. Always hope.
