Dear Mental Health Month,

You suck.

It’s been a really rough go of it of late. I’ve had a major depressive episode, the worst I think I’ve ever had.

This is why the Greek gods don’t get invited to all those big tent revivals anymore. A guy tells a few too many lies, and boom, Sisyphus has to roll a boulder up a hill for eternity. That happens today and we’ll never find enough boulders.

I’ve tried to explain it, and the closest I’ve gotten is that I’ve been doused in tar, not allowed to sleep for a week, and drowning in manufactured sorrow. And I’ve felt like that all the time.

I talked to my person, Jill, at the pain management office about it all. I actually broke down and told her all of it: two weeks without taking a bath, hit or miss on brushing my teeth, wearing bits of pajamas all day, not leaving the house unless forced to, eating nothing but desserts and other garbage.

She said the Lexapro, and this is her technical medical term, “pooped out on me.”

So I’m in that fun bit where I’m titrating off Lexapro and on to a new antidepressant called Brintellix.

And today I felt better. I cared enough to put on some mascara. I laughed out loud at things. Getting out of bed didn’t feel like a Sisyphean task.

I’ve still got another week of titration to go, but I’m feeling some hope.

So I’ll be clinging to that feeling, and I’ll still be,



2 thoughts on “Dear Mental Health Month,

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