It finally dawned on me yesterday that it’s not that life is hard, it’s not circumstances, it’s not that I’m not getting enough sleep, it’s not that I’m a failure…no, it’s none of those things. It’s that I’m depressed!
Yes, it deserves an exclamation mark because knowing ‘what’s wrong’ has relieved my mind so much.
I said to Devo, oh patient and loving husband, (while dissolving into tears again over something truly insignificant), I need an anti-depressant. And it hit me. Ding ding, the puzzle pieces fell into place.
A quick moment with google confirms it…depression is a symptom of hypothyroidism.
Great, now I’m not only sluggish, exhausted, and accruing fat, I’m struggling with depression.
At first, I felt a whole lot better, having a diagnosis. It’s not me! It’s not circumstantial! It’s chemical!
And then I felt depressed because I’m, you know, depressed.
Now I know why I am sane and capable one moment, immobilized and crying the next. Yes, depression, I remember your old tricks.
But the indisputable hypothyroidism means that the depression should go away within a few weeks as we increase my thyroid dosage. Goody.
I pledge to be gentle to myself, to soak in love like it is warm sunshine, and to let go of the ‘things-I-should-be-doing’ when needed. This calls for a little less tenacity and a little more letting go.
Today I tried all those things, and it was so much nicer than the futile and mulish struggle I’ve been engaged in recently.
The toilets may be evolving into slime monsters worthy of nightmares, the house may be constantly and consistently strewn with stuff and making me hope nobody stops by, our school routine may fall to the wayside, and we may eat out while perfectly good vegetables wilt in the fridge … but by George, that’s A-OK with me.