doing a little bit well
Six months ago I experienced a streak of jagged, bullying depression. It was a slow evolution, a brick-by-brick construction that I didn’t fully process until it was on me. I only knew that I was lonely, isolated at my new job, that I felt a deep mental fatigue on waking—the kind that arrives, settles, doesn’t go away—and a terrible sense of confusion about what any of my life had been or would be for.
It peaked on a work trip, where I sat in a hotel bed, tore through a whole bunch of M&Ms, and thought of how deeply meaningless my life had been, was, would be. Reader, I cried something awful, and felt worse for that, too. I wish that feeling on no one.
Shortly after, things got better at work. I moved to another part of the office, found community. I signed up for the local Y, ran around their track in the evenings.
And I started to write again.