My world shattered last year. It wasn’t just the pandemic; I also faced my most trusted employee embezzling (and then suing me when I filed a police report), a divorce from an emotionally abusive spouse, the loss of my dream home, being homeless, and bouncing around for a year and a half, and moving out of state — twice.
Given the compressed trauma of all these events hitting at once, it probably shouldn’t be surprising that I started suffering from a heavy charcoal gray depression, striped with lime green anxiety. Prior to last year, I’d have phases of melancholy, but nothing that a good long hike in the woods, or a cry by the sea couldn’t help. Nothing that lingered more than a week or two. This was different; I spent most of last December sobbing and wondering if anyone would miss me if I…just didn’t wake up the next day. I was largely unfunctional at work, preferring to just lie curled in the fetal position in bed with tears running down my cheeks.
Or maybe that’s not quite correct; I didn’t prefer to lay in bed weeping, I just couldn’t get out of bed. In an attempt to “fix” whatever was wrong with me, I bought self-help books that I couldn’t focus on long enough to read. I looked into returning to therapy, but without an income and with a long backlog of patients queued ahead of me, it wasn’t on the table. I spent Christmas Eve—alone—sobbing until my stomach hurt, after which I sobbed some more. I declined phone calls and texts from people checking in on me. I canceled going to my family’s house for Christmas dinner. I didn’t have the energy to engage.
After shivering for an hour, I finally shimmied into a thick wooly sweater and lay on my bed in the darkness—metaphorically and literally. From the nearly pitch-black room, I watched the rain pelt the window and the wind buffet the trees below the apartment where I was staying. I barely raised an eyebrow when a branch flung itself toward the powerlines above my room and then THUNK-kerthunk-kerthunked on the roof as it hit and rolled off.
I took a bath that wouldn’t fill up the whole way before the warm water turned tepid and then lay shivering half in and half out of the water. I made some Good Earth spiced tea, wrapping my palms around the mug in the hopes that it would thaw my bleak outlook.
I hid how bad I was from the tiny circle of people I still communicated with semi-regularly; I didn’t want anyone to worry, but moreover, I didn’t want the stigma of mental illness. The shame that I wasn’t able to just pull myself out of it more quickly burned white-hot and made me feel weak.
I hated feeling like this; I’d always been the girl radiating joy and sunlight, and suddenly I was in desperate need of both, but unable to access those within. Positive change wasn’t happening naturally so I forced myself to go on hikes and walk my dog, even though I cried the whole time. I started meditating and began a gratitude journal. Some days, the best thing I could be grateful for was my warm wiggly puppy on my lap, but at least that was a start.
I’m not sure when it changed; I just know that one day, I was able to shower without this anvil of grief and frustration and hopelessness sitting on my chest. A few days after that, I could shower and put on makeup. I still wasn’t ready to be out in public, but I could imagine a time in the near future where that might be a possibility.
I bought some houseplants. I finally bought groceries and filled my portion of the fridge. I began writing. I filled my diffuser with essential oils to make the air smell inviting. I continued my meditation and gratitude practice. I returned texts and calls. Slowly, like a new seedling germinating, I began to poke my head up through the darkness, squinting at the sunlight.
Unseen illnesses—like depression, or the autoimmune issue that has plagued me since my teenage years—are difficult to deal with, particularly when you can’t pinpoint the cause. If you don’t know what triggered it, how are you supposed to get better? And how are you supposed to prevent spells like these in the future?
I can’t say that I’m back to “normal” or to my pre-pandemic joyful self. But I feel more grounded. I feel more real and authentic. I feel steadier and have hope. After a lot of healing and internal work, I met someone new and fell in love. We got a house with a yard and I’m enjoying the slower pace of purpose-driven work—gardening, baking sourdough (I missed the boat on the first go-round because I didn’t have a kitchen or a stable place to live and keep a starter), learning new skills like foraging for (safe) mushrooms and digging for razor clams and then cleaning and cooking them. My life has receded to the simple things, and the people who were consistently there, but it feels manageable and cozy.
It was scary to share my struggles with my partner. I wasn’t sure how he’d take it, or if it would make him run screaming. It was the first time I’d put my fears and faults on a shelf right up front for someone else to see, and it’s a whole new level of closeness to feel accepted and loved despite them.
This year, we are decking the halls. We made hot chocolate and put up Christmas lights and pulled out our combined nine bins of festive decorations. It was a joy to watch each other go through our decorations—we both have snowman collections, but there are no duplicates among them—and describe the stories attached. This year, feeling wholeheartedly loved, flaws and all, is the best gift we can give each other.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Author, last Christmas
