I don’t remember the last time I wrote.  I could look it up but that seems like entirely too much effort for the place that I’m currently in.  No idea what I’m about to write.  I guess we find out, together.

In late February, we found out that my dad had colon cancer.  Surgery was March 1^st and went well.  He was discharged a couple of days later and my siblings and I took turns checking up on him.  By the following weekend (on my watch), something clearly wasn’t right.  My sister (also a nurse) and I were in close communication and decided that Dad needed to go to the ER.  And he didn’t leave the hospital again for a month.  There was a week on a ventilator and *many* days of having no idea if he’d ever be leaving the hospital.  Many of my days were work, hospital, home, bed.  Repeat.  Dad finally went home a few days before Easter and, while he’s still very weak, he’s finally where he feels the most comfortable.

Even before this, things were a struggle.  While my dad was in the hospital, adrenaline kicked in and I did what I had to do to get through the days.  But—and I REALLY should know this by now—after the crisis ends, the crash comes.

I don’t think I’ve ever really pulled out of the depression I was clearly in when the overdose happened, and my job certainly isn’t doing me any favors.  THANK GOD for some good friends at work who make me laugh so hard or I’m not sure how I’d still be hanging on.

I just led a group on relapse prevention and one of the things I talk about is that it’s important to pay attention if trusted people in your life are commenting that you don’t seem like yourself or are asking if something is wrong.  Yes to both of those for me, lately.

If you read any of these blogs (God bless you if you do), you know I’ve dealt with depression for YEARS.  This current bout started spiraling with the loss of what I *always* called my dream job. While I am very, very grateful to still have a job in psych, that loss is proving hard for me to shake.  Maybe it’s because of everything that just went down with my dad, but I feel like I’m standing on shifting sand, trying hard to find my balance.  Nothing feels quite right, even though I’m trying to do any/everything I can think of to buoy my spirits (redoing my living room, yoga, trying out dating again). It’s all futile.  Or so it feels.

I’m not sure how often I write while in abject depression … is it all of the time?  It might be.  Everything feels blurry right now.  Feeling a little solidarity with Kate Spade or Anthony Bourdain right now because I suspect most people I interact with have absolutely no idea of how I really feel (not because I’m remotely successful or famous or rich but because I’m a phony, inauthentic).  After a while, the mask is more comfortable on than off.

Had an appointment with my psychiatrist recently that I cancelled since my dad was not doing well at all and I didn’t want to waste my vacation time for a doctor’s visit.  But I do have my first therapy appointment in ages coming up—which I am absolutely dreading.  DREADING.  D R E A D I N G.  Barf.  The idea of whipping out my laundry list of trauma is nauseating.  I’ll go, of course, but not because I want to.  I’ll go because I feel like I owe that to the people in my life who, for whatever reason, don’t realize what a jackass I actually am.

Where are we with this blog? Am I (a) helping the reader, or (b) helping myself? Or am I (c) rambling on into the void due to inexplicable hubris? It’s difficult to say (the answer is C).

So I’ve talked to the RNs who run the inpatient units at work (keep up—I can’t be expected to stay on topic after a couple glasses of sparkling wine.  Yes. Terrible coping skill.  I know.  I don’t care right now), and there’s hope that someday, maybe soon, I’ll get back to inpatient nursing: then I can finish school to become an NP.  For the record, I realize how utterly absurd that sounds considering my current state of mind—but the benefit of old age is knowing that at some point (I have no idea when), this depression will lift.  Right? RIGHT? R I G H T????

I feel like I need to wrap up this blog with something redeeming.  Some pearl of wisdom or insight.

How about this:  You never know who is struggling.  By all appearances, they may seem to have their shit together.  They may make people laugh loudly and frequently.  They may be intelligent.  They may be talented.  They may be wealthy.  But depression doesn’t give a fuck about any of that shit.  Depression will sneak in through the back door, grab you by the throat, and slam your head and your soul into the wall.

I’m surely not the first to say it, and hopefully I won’t be the last … but just Be Kind. Always.