When I was younger, I liked to slide down the metal slides at the park. I was a weirdo, though. I liked to start at the top and slide down as slowly as possible. My legs would stick to the slide and make squishy slurping noises as the sweat suctioned my chubby thighs to the metal slide and I inched my way down…slurp…down…squish…down, until I finally landed at the bottom.
There could be 10 kids waiting in line to go down the slide behind me, but I didn’t care. I took my time and pretended I was the only person in the world and enjoyed the slow, sometimes uncomfortable, hot, squeaky slide to the bottom.
When I described my experience of my most recent depression episode, it was this image that came to mind. It was a hot, sticky, uncomfortable slide downward. There was no cliff; there was no drop-off. There was just a gradual descent into a “funk” (The official term for this type of experience). This funk is nothing like some of the episodes of depression I have experienced in the past. I am still a long way from the bottom of the pit, but I’m just uncomfortable and sweaty and I’m ready to get my fat ass off the slide.
After speaking with my therapist last week, I decided it is probably time for another ketamine booster. I was trying to make it to three months, but two months is definitely still a win in my book.
Two months. Two whole months. Two months of feeling good and being able to function normally and carry on with my life. I have done a lot in the past two months. I am preparing to return to school in January to pursue my master’s degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. I am super excited about this opportunity and I know that this is the path I’m supposed to be on. I have moved home and started a new job in my hometown. I have navigated the process of going back to school—a three-hour interview with the faculty of the department, the hours of relentless paperwork and applications and financial aid nightmares. I took the GRE. Finally, I learned that I was accepted into the program—and possibly more importantly, I was able to secure the financial aid I need to pursue my degree full-time.
All of that is to say that it has been a very FULL two months and I am beyond grateful for the ability to pilot myself and function as well as I have because of the treatments I have received. The truth is, I began the process of applying for school back in July. But—again—the truth is, I was not ready. I was distracted and depressed and there is no way I could have done all of the things I’ve needed to accomplish to actually be successful in school until now.
I still feel pretty good, but I feel the darkness creeping in on me and I know that it is time for me to seek another treatment. I’m highly anxious and irritable and I feel a burning rage in the pit of my stomach. I’m afraid of what will happen if I continue to let it rumble and bubble until, eventually, I expel all of that wrath onto someone who really doesn’t deserve it. For instance, I almost lost my shit the other day when I couldn’t find my socks. After some deep breathing and mindfulness, I realized that this is all stemming from the depression that is starting to squeak its way down the slide and into my mind.
I also really want to dye my hair back red. That’s a pretty good indication that things aren’t great in my mental situation. My friend Sara says that my hair is like a mood ring. Every time I dye it some drastic color, I am probably freaking the fuck out inside. She’s not wrong.
So, friends, this is it. I am scheduled for another treatment on Wednesday and I will hopefully post not long after about how the experience goes.
Thanks to each of you who continue to reach out and check in on me—it has not gone unnoticed!
