Here and Back Again

I'm not sure where to begin this time, although I guess I never really am. I want to say I'm back here, back on the blog, back to depression. Usually my return to writing is a good indicator of my current emotional state. Something I'm struggling with though, is the feeling that the place I'm currently in appears to be familiar and brand-spanking new at the same time.

I'm depressed; I cried it out, I've leaned into it (after some kicking and screaming--wouldn't say embraced, exactly), I'm calling it what it is. I'm depressed and yet I feel like a different person. My beast wants to pull out all of the old stops but none of it is sticking. I didn't see it coming this time and I definitely shamed myself for missing the signs (you'd think that over a decade of experience with depression would be good for something) but I'm starting to think that I wouldn't recognize it at first if my beast had smacked me across the face with it. It's depression alright, but it's a whole new shape and color. And a whole new me has risen to meet it. 

I am living in a new place.

I am in a new relationship.

I am helping to raise my partner's son. 

I am unemployed and anxiously awaiting the start of grad school.

I am also depressed.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't hoped to leave my beast on the other side of the country, to set him on fire so that after graduating from undergrad, bringing closure to relationships and grieving the loss of my grandmother, I could arrive in Rhode Island born anew. And I'd be lying if I said that I know how to navigate the introductions: my beast to my new little family and my beast to myself. 

But I've started. 

I named this (depression) on Saturday. 

On Sunday I went for a hike with my partner and our dogs and I felt my brain settle in my skull, my heart and lungs cling to my rib-cage, my muscles to my flesh. I was anchored in my body and it felt different.

I called my psychiatrist on Monday (like I said I would) and we made the decision to increase my medication for the time being.

Later (still Monday) I wrote a safety plan for myself and my partner. I described worst case scenarios, took responsibility, and asked for help. I extended myself farther than I thought myself capable of, sitting in vulnerability longer than I prepared myself for and waited for rejection that didn't come. Then, before I could catch my breath I rose to meet parenting and an inconsolable two year-old at his bedroom door. I held him in his vulnerability, ran my fingers through his hair, sang to him. This too, felt different.

Today is Tuesday. And you could say I'm back here. But what does that really mean anyway?