2019 was the first year I took my depression seriously. It was the first year I realized it could actually take my life.
You’ve read it before. I was bulimic for ten years. And when I stopped being bulimic, I became a drunk. Naturally, any bout of depression in those fifteen years was intrinsically tied to my “habits.” My brain attributed my lows as a natural side effect of throwing my guts up multiple times a day, everyday, for a decade. When that finally stopped, my brain then accepted my lows as natural comedowns from my love of wine and tequila. Sadness was just the temporary side effect of my beloved 92 Château Sainte Marguerite Rosé. My brain accepted lows, but not really as my own. Always just tied to behavior and circumstance.
And then 2019 came and broke me. I was out. Cold. For four months. Out of nowhere. No one really knew. For the most part, I was still pretty high functioning. My bills were all paid on time. I went on dozens and dozens of general meetings. My diet was squeaky clean. I FaceTimed my parents, often. I still sent my friends screenshots of ridiculous DMs. But I was swimming through molasses with a bag over my head. And I was lost. Depression hit and I was a year and a half sober, with five years of ED recovery under my belt, and I did not know I could hit this low a bottom on my own. There were no external factors this time. There were no substances messing with the chemistry of my brain. I had to come to terms with the fact that depression was no side effect. This was just my brain. This is my brain. This is how it’s wired. Everything else about the rosé and the toilet was just a distraction I spun for myself. But if this is just my brain, what now?Read More