this blessed sip of life

I've yet to find a better way to explain it other than to say ... my brain broke.

It was a Sunday morning early in October of 2007 and I awoke, heart racing, paralyzed and unable to get out of bed, gripped with fear about putting my feet on the carpet, taking a step, or another breath. And when I managed to overcome that - I couldn't get out of the shower. And when the water ran cold, I kept standing there until I couldn't anymore. And then I couldn't get dressed.

The following days and weeks played out in the same fashion.
Every little thing became a battle with myself.
Thinking. Blinking. Breathing.

The world spun madly on as mine fell to pieces and came to a jarring halt.
And I couldn't explain why or figure it out.
I quit my job.
Hired a therapist.
Cried.
Stayed in pajamas for days on end.
Worried.
Cried more. Cried over nothing. Cried over everything.
Shut down.

It felt like the weight of the last 27 years came crashing down and I sat alone, under the debris. I didn't have to tools to dig out, a nerdbomber headlamp to show me the way, or the gumption to cut off my arm or drink my own pee for survival purposes in the interim.

Instead, I wanted to go to sleep under that blanket of debris, to go numb under the heaviness.
To not wake up.

It's been just over a year since the brain break-age. I'm pleased to report that an eternal siesta is no longer high on my list o' wishes. And on a sidenote, nor is a trampoline. I'm finally over it. The trampoline, that is. Not the depression.

My heart went triple time as I typed that word.

It means that I'm admitting it. That I was definitely something more than bummed. That I may someday be again. That I have that thing that everybody else can have - but not me.

But I've learned that personal will-power does not a cure make. Nor does ignoring. And only when I opened up about it did I begin to take steps toward healing. Most steps forward were met with a few steps backward, but hey! some forward steps! Right? Right!

In the last year I have expanded the family by three furry babies, for two of whom I'll probably have to foot the bill on therapy for all they've listened to me. I've ridden my bike in the pouring rain to wash it all away, whatever it is, visited futureme.org and composed uplifting missives, hugged myself and trees and strangers because I needed to - right then. I've reconnected with loved ones, relied on old friends, and seen the truth in Matt's words when he vowed in sickness and health. I've been honest about how awful I feel. Hidden under the covers and found the strength to come out. And when I haven't, someone has loved me enough to yank me out with words or actions. Or both.

And now, one of the biggest obstacles of all, sharing of the soul-sapping experience here. A place where I've always felt comfortable being myself - as long as myself is funny or vulgar or disturbing or non-sensical. But not depressed. Never depressed.

But now I can check this part of the healing off, too.
And admit that it feels good. And enough.