Memories

The last few days have been good days.

Today, despite the longer than average work hours, was a very good day. I accomplished several things on my "To Do" list, both short and long term goals, and I remembered to pace myself so that I don't burn out before I can finish the rest.

The odd thing is that on my good days, it's hard to remember how awful the really bad days are.

Even when they are recent. Even when I have a written record, like my last post, of exactly how deeply affected I was. Even when those around me at the time express concern and follow up for days to make sure I am back on my feet.

When I re-read my own words, there's an insistent impression (not even a full blown thought) that the depressive episode wasn't that bad. Even when I am reminded that at one point I literally could not speak to my boyfriend, part of my brain doesn't believe it. It really is like remembering a bad dream. I understand, intellectually, what I felt and why I reacted the way that I did, but there is no emotional impact to the memory.

If memories are color photographs, the images of that time are all out of focus and in shades of grey.

It makes me wonder how often I have minimized my suffering, to myself and to others. It certainly explains why it has taken me so long to recognize what a pervasive impact depression has on my life. I can only guess that it is a product of internalized cultural prejudices against mental illness, combined with my tendency to hold myself to a far higher standard than that to which I hold my loved ones.

Maybe now, with this blog as documentation of my struggles, I will start learning how to be kinder to myself.