A New Low

I am no stranger to mental health. I have long considered myself to be a mental health advocate, always encouraging coworkers, friends, and family to take care of their mental health. Find a therapist, take meds, meditate, read: get your spoons back.

I have also been open with friends and family about my past struggles with anxiety. This was mostly in college as I dealt with coming to terms with being gay, graduating, and moving into the “real world.” I haven’t minded sharing about anxiety attacks or taking SSRIs. For the last several years it’s been easy to talk from a place of peace and safety.

It’s more difficult now to write about my depression and dark night of the soul from the midst of such a terrible moment. I have never had such a crisis in faith as I reevaluate who I am and what I believe. I have never felt more terror as I contemplate death. The unceasing rumination in my head trying to fathom nothing. Trouble falling asleep, waking up to unwelcome thoughts, constant feelings of impending doom. Fatigue, heart palpitations, short breaths, hopelessness.

Honestly I’m not sure if there is nothing or something in death. I haven’t come to any particular conclusion as I sort through things. But I want to write, journal, and catalog more of my thoughts from the eye of the storm rather than in retrospect.

Thoughts, prayers, and good vibes are all welcome.

I have recently restarted my SSRI, am in intensive outpatient therapy, taking a leave from work, and am fortunate to have a decent support system. If you’re going through something, you’re not alone. We’re in this together.