I should write more.


I guess it has been almost 3 years (too early, can’t math yet) since the last time I wrote here.  I’m surviving.  Most days are okay so I cannot sit here and complain too much.  I have started to write several entries over the last couple years, but I never finish them.  I’m going to finish this one though.  Just need to write.   

Several months ago, I lost a close friend.  A good friend, a great father and husband.  He was dealing with the same kinda shit I do, but he lost his fight.  The first call I got sent me for a loop.  That combined with an already shitty time of year for me, sent me into what my APRN at the VA called a Major Depressive Episode.  Regardless of what it was, I almost took myself to the Psych ER and she wasn’t all that thrilled to let me leave at my appointment.

It’s hard to admit when you need help.  I’m grateful that a few select people allowed me to share the unfiltered truth with them.  I’m glad they listened.  Frankly, I am not comfortable sharing with my family or most people all of the details.  I barely felt like being honest with my therapist at the VA and my level of sharing there nearly got me admitted (as it has on more then one occasion) I spent a fair amount of time lost inside the trappings of my mind and the thoughts were not pleasant. It was already a shitty time of year for me and a select series of events made it extremely difficult.  

While I climbed over that mountain, I haven’t gotten to where I was before the summer started.  I have plenty of reasons not to be depressed or anxious about a million things.  But I find myself depressed anyways.  I’m very aware of what triggers it to get worse.  The biggest is when I kids go to their mothers.  My ongoing “coparenting” relationship with her is another problem.  But that’s another story.  

I’m thankful for my dog.  While he isn’t trained in anything special, I’ve come to realize he can sense when I’m getting pretty low.  He doesn’t leave me alone and like to rest on top of me.  Don’t know if it’s the weight of him or his company or both, but he helps.  

When I was first dealing directly with my PTSD, I learned many skills and ways to cope, etc and other nonsense.  While all those things help, they don’t make everything go away.  They don’t make things stop.  The skittles bag of antidepressants I take do keep the depression at bay.  I’m sure they help, but that’s not my point.  Am I ever going to reach a point in my life where I don’t need drugs, where I don’t need all the skills, where I wake up genuinely happy?  And I going to reach a point where passive suicidal ideation isn’t a regular part of my thought pattern?  

Maybe bedtime I’ll write about UFOs.  I have lots to say there.

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