The Bloody Doors Off

There’s a thing called high-functioning depression.

Of which I check off some of the boxes.

But you have to have been in this fugue state for a minimum of two years.

So that doesn’t explain what I’ve been feeling the past two days.

I’ve been able to focus on tasks, like a formatting job I did for a client this morning. Was able to concentrate solely on that, got the job done in a reasonable amount of time. No issues. But once it was done, and my mind no longer locked in, waves of depression washed back over me.

I don’t get it.

I have nothing to be depressed about. Yes, the CRB has run out. And thanks to the government, I don’t qualify for the next stage. Apparently it’s aimed more toward businesses. But work is starting to trickle in again. I’ve got an assignment that allows for ad hoc hours, that will run into 2022. If I can average 10 hours a week along with my other client requests, I should be fine. I might even be able to contribute to household expenses again. It should cover my prescriptions until my deductible kicks in.

The majority of my dental work is done. I have a consult next week to discuss whether or not another tooth has to be pulled or can be fixed with fillings. But I’ve grown somewhat comfortable in the dentist’s chair; my fears have lessened in the past couple of months. I won’t lie, I needed Marlo by my side the first couple of times to help me through the experience. And Doc Sugarman has done a great job. I can probably hold off on getting the final dentures for a few months, and can arrange a payment plan to pay it off in the new year.

Anxiety about being in public has continually lessened these past few months. I actually look forward to short trips to run errands. And I went to a public place on Sunday with a friend, and Covid protocols were in place so I never felt anxious.

So my point is. This bout of depression is completely chemically-induced by my brain. And I don’t know how to fight it.

And I want to fight it. I don’t want to ride it out.