trouble in tow / go wisely and slow¹

If I make it seem easy, it’s not.

That panicky, tick-tock tightening rises up from my gut into my throat and I’m up on my feet in front of my desk, chair pushed back and spinning, both of us reeling temporarily.

The difference between this in my 20s and this in my 40s — here at the end so I guess I could really say my 50s — is that I built systems, some healthy, some probably not so much, over time that keeps those moments short, in check. And I learned to stop listening to folks, sometime around 2003, who said exercise would get rid of my depression, which was really major depressive disorder (MDD) and, after decades of med trials and switches, is chemically managed by finally figuring out SNRIs were the ticket for whatever my head does naturally or whatever, as opposed to SSRIs.

I say this to say that what I’m about to say is not me saying “just exercise, you’ll feel better!” if you’re depressed.

I mean, that’s true, but it needs some context. And for us depressive folks, y’all know who you are, the meds get me motivated enough to do the exercise thing that, yes, does in the end make me feel better. BUT, and this is an important but: meds are the context, friends.

So here I am, vibing on a Saturday afternoon. But I spent all morning bed-rotting, as the kids say, struggling to write, to read, to focus. Nothing has happened. Nothing should be wrong. I have the normal work / life stress of anyone else, and even less, actually way fucking less, than I did two years ago. Nothing, in other words, has triggered this.

That’s the thing, yeah? Depression just sits with you. On you. It’s heavy, but not comfy-heavy, like those weighted blankets. It’s like a damn slab of rock. Not suffocating you, but , um, slabbing you. Anyway.

So:

Made sure I took my meds, which I hadn’t, and which includes my HRT, which also matters at my post-menopausal age. Check.

Add high-powered weed gummy (yes, I have a medical card in a medical state), my sneaks, yoga pants, water bottle, and a 20-minute stroll around the neighborhood without music but WITH permission to talk to myself as much as I wanted or needed to. Check.

Back home. Roll out the yoga mat, kick the dogs out of the room, close the door because said dogs will end up on my yoga mat looking up at me for snacks and I needed some time alone this afternoon. New folkish yoga mat playlist at the ready. Improv breathing and opening centering, warmup movement, mobility stretches, and whatever else I want, which includes some old bellydance moves to music that has no business being bellydanced to. Also a bit of weight stuff and pushups as mood strikes, which is not much but is enough. Check.

And now I’m either (a) high enough or (b) clear enough — maybe a bit of both? — to write something that is at least coherent to me if no one else, which I had been trying to do since I woke up this morning. It took a whole day, all this stuff, meds of different varieties, to get me even remotely to sitting my butt in this chair and typing this out. And it made me think about this:

When I first announced to my friends that I was blowing up my life and moving back home at nearly 50 years old, I had more than one pull me aside privately, text me, or otherwise let me know that they were envious. I feel icky even saying that because it sounds like I’m making myself sound so great. I don’t mean it that way, clearly. It was and continues to be an absolute shock that anyone would ever have felt this way because I had no clue or idea what the fuck I was doing. It’s like we all have this secret desire to leave our lives, to start again (you don’t start over nor fresh at my age — you just start again), to have something out there on the horizon that seems promising. Especially, ESPECIALLY at my age. Significantly, aforementioned envious friends were around my age or whereabouts.

I honestly just felt completely untethered. Like I could do what I wanted. So I did it. That shit was scary as fuck. And still is sometimes.

Which means the rising panic I began this entry with… and it hits when I least expect it. I say this for folks wanting to blow up their lives, doing a big change, a little change, mentally blowing up long-held mindfucks: it doesn’t stop being scary. You just keep showing up, not for anyone else, but for yourself.

I’ve had nearly 5 decades of living with a depression monster in my head. I would like to formally thank my past self for just being fidgety and wanting to stretch here and there throughout my life, which is what led me, a 15-year old sprinter who needed to loosen her hamstrings, to pick up an encyclopedia (yes, hello 1993) and see tree pose in the entry for something called “Yoga.”

Because at 49, having done yoga on and off since 1993 and most consistently in the last decade, I can finally improv on my mat so that I don’t have to think too much about what I’m doing. I vibed earlier and still got a workout and a half, according to my tracker thingy — as much as a more traditional gym type workout. I always walked to think, to listen to new albums or playlists, to yes try and get in shape or whatever. Started that at 15 too, just to get out of the house and away from family drama. It’s muscle memory to go straight to either to sort myself out after the meds kick in.

I had no clue that my past selves had done so much for my present — and future — selves. I had no idea I’d cared for myself so well, though so much, even if I did it haphazardly, randomly, without consciousness that I was doing it.

It’s weird to be excited about discovering the other ways my past self has cared for the present and future me. It’s almost gasp something to look forward to in a world on fire.

1. This post title brought to you by The Staves ↩︎