My wife wants me to take drugs….for depression. She may be right, of course. I was famously told by a therapist that I’ve been “mildly depressed for fifteen years,” and that was eight years ago.
I wrote the above over a week ago. Since then I started seeing a counselor again, which I knew (and was told) that I needed to do. I may have been depressed now for over 20 years (and, I would wager, for quite a bit longer than that), but the depression and anxiety I struggle with on a daily basis are related to the other elephant in the room….which I’ve also suspected for some time- PTSD. Well, now apparently I can suspect it no longer, as I have an official PTSD diagnosis. It may be an insurance/billing contrivance, but a professional thinks enough of it to recommend ongoing treatment. Not insignificantly, I don’t doubt the truth of it. I’ve long been “stuck” in a hyperaroused state, and my “baseline” for what it takes to send me over the edge in anger has shifted dramatically. To my credit (I’d like to think), it’s controlled well, but the effort is….immense. It’s not just anger either. As I told the therapist this evening, the weight of my own story is increasingly burdensome, not unmanageable just yet, but it feels like it’s getting that way. I used to feel some cathartic relief in telling my story, but no longer. Now, the thought of speaking of my life, of all that I’ve been through, is incredibly daunting. Silence is so very much better. And yet the need to be known, accepted, approved of, and loved has not waned, though the hope of finding/growing in my awareness of those things certainly has.
As for what I thought about during “church” last week, well, suffice it to say it was not uplifting, and I’ll try to say more about it perhaps next time.
Hey, I blogged.