Five things that saved me during a depression spiral.

When even the simplest tasks feel like too much.

I knew something was wrong when I could no longer listen to sad music. When I couldn't watch dramas anymore. When even writing became too intense — because I could not wade through the depths of my own emotions. They were too much, too wide, and too deep.

Depression is not the same as being in a funk. It is not the same as feeling sad. For me, it felt like being incapacitated. I could see the tasks in front of me. Getting out of bed. Brushing my teeth. Putting on clothes. They were so simple, and yet I could not bring myself to act. I could not move or pull the covers off my body. I was too cold. Too tired. Too something I didn't know how to solve.

I had fantasies of my past self. I imagined her alive and oozing with energy — running errands, vacuuming the rug in our living room, dancing in a sea of wildflowers in a summer dress. She had so much zest for life. And I wondered if I would ever find my way back to her. Where was she? Who had I become in her absence?

I also wondered if my circumstances were really as bad as I was making them out to be. Maybe I was just being dramatic. Maybe this sustained period of grogginess and self-criticism and despair was all in my mind. Was this just adulthood? Was adulthood just sad? Was I simply coming to terms with the monotony of my life?

I feared that if I stood still any longer, watching my life come undone, it would be harder and harder to find my way back. To wherever back was. I racked my brain for something — anything — to do. And this is what I came up with. These were the five things that saved me (even just slightly) from my depression spiral.

I laid out my clothes the night before.

I couldn’t do much, but I could open the drawer of my bureau and pick out a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a sweater for the following day. I could pick out my socks and my underwear, lay them on the chair in front of my closet. And in the morning, when the thought of getting out of bed felt too big, too daunting, I knew at least I wouldn’t have to stand in front of my dresser under the weight of deciding what to wear. That much, I could still do. I picked out my clothes.

I walked to the mailbox.

I couldn't walk beyond it. But I didn't have to. Each morning, before I made a cup of coffee, I walked down the long driveway, picked up the mail, and walked it back to the front door. It was 4 minutes in total. I listened to the birds chirp and said what I was grateful for. Some days it was my dogs. Other times, my husband. I tried to envision each thing. Hold it in my mind like I was giving it a hug. I walked to the mailbox.

I listened to the Beach Boys.

There was something so ironic about listening to the Beach Boys and dreaming of a California summer in the dead of a New England winter. I was so desperate to feel something other than low that the Beach Boys felt like the only option. And they worked, they carried me back to the backseat of our family minivan, my dad driving us to Santa Cruz on Sunday mornings after church. Even though I felt so far away from that girl, from that life — for a moment, I was suspended there in time. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere better. I listened to the Beach Boys.

I cuddled my dog.

I remember his light brown eyes looking up at me. I put my hand on his head, rubbed the back of his neck, felt the softness of his fur against my palms. Nothing could fully deliver me out of the fog, but for a moment, he did. He was just there. Present in only the way dogs are, asking nothing of me, expecting nothing from me. I cuddled my dog.

I told someone.

For so long, I had been telling myself that what I was experiencing was just par for the course. That I just needed to push through. Exercise more. Surrender to it. Wait it out. Maybe it wasn’t really that bad. Maybe I was being dramatic.

But when I finally confided in my doctor, it was the simplest thing in the world to get help. To come up with a plan. I feel lucky that she validated what I was feeling, that she took my concerns seriously, that she believed me.

Now, standing on the other side of this — feeling infinitely better — I can see that what I felt was real. That it was scary. That I was disconnected from myself, and that no, I wasn’t making any of it up. I wish I had believed myself sooner. I wish I had told someone sooner.

In the end, what saved me most was choosing to believe my own experience.

Not dismissing what I felt as dramatics, or circumstance, or the resignation of adulthood. But facing it. Honoring it. Choosing to do something about it. That, I’ve realized, is the epitome of strength — not the dismissal of your own pain, but the courage to take it seriously.

From there, help is possible. Help is renewing. Help is healing. Help is ours, if only we have the courage to to ask.

Until next time,
Anna

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