slow

It’s that time of year again.  When the changing seasons seep into my body and brain, whispering unkind words that tip my delicate equilibrium.  For me, depression is physical as much as it is mental and emotional. I experience it in my body. My bones feel heavy and immovable, my joints and muscles ache, and my energy levels drop to a slow crawl.  Despite years of these recurring episodes, it still takes me a couple of weeks to discern what is happening to me. Do I have the flu? Am I not drinking enough water? Maybe I should resume supplements or take some ibuprofen or floss my teeth.  There must be some simple remedy for the symptoms in my body.

It dawns on me when I notice the impact of how I feel on how I live.  I withdraw from friends and activities I enjoy. I sit and stare at nothing, a lot.  In fact, I look forward to sitting and staring at nothing. I want to be very still. I want everything around me to be very still. Light and sound feel heavier than I can bear.  This is the beginning of depression

With plodding intentionality I move to catch myself.  I schedule the appointments. I try a couple simple activities and visit with a friend.  I move so slowly.

Slow helps.  Years ago, before my psychiatrist identified an appropriate set of medications, slow was the only thing that helped.  I’d write the word on my hand, see it throughout the day, and resume the tasks at hand, slowly. Slow is gentle and patient. Slow is the cushion of grace around me, which means that the current feeling is not the entirely of who I am. Slow is a foggy view of my essential Jenni-ness, intact and whole, still present with me.

Today, is one of those days.  I’m at the office, surrounded by piles of paper and a couple to-do lists.  I’ll choose one task, do it slowly, check it off, and consider the next one.  In a while, I’ll have the satisfaction of completing things. After that, I’ll pick up my purse, walk slowly to my car, and drive home, where slow is more acceptable and I feel a little more like me.