Depression sucks the energy out of me. Makes it hard to move, hard to care, hard to think of anything but the same tired scripts that suck the energy out.
I learned in 2019 that moving helps. When Miss Kitty was dying, I couldn't eat, but I could move. I kept moving - and accidentally started ketosis and lost 15 pounds before I realized what was happening and forced myself to eat a chocolate chip cookie. That was two months after her burial.
I knew weekends playing Farmville for 18 hours a day made the depression worse, one of the reasons I quit Farmville. I knew spending any kind of time in The Swamp pulling weeds, watering something, moving a brick or two, helped my mood, which is why I have forced myself to go outside. It is so helpful that on good mental days I lay out my garden pants so I'm ready to change as soon as I come home. Like exercise. Don't think. Just do.
I didn't do that last week. I over-extended on the weekend, and stayed in Monday and Tuesday instead of going outside. By Wednesday, I was an emotional wreck.
The anxiety is gone for the moment but the anger and hopeless are building. Mostly anger as society gets dumber by the hour, it seems, but hopelessness is quick to follow when I remember God wants me to love these stupid people and be kind to the morons. How exactly do I do that, Lord, when I just want to bitch-slap all of them?
Paul Asay runs marathons to avoid the down-sucking of depression, but the trifecta of thick glasses, bad knees and motion sickness rule that option out for me. Plus, I hate running.
I like outside chores. I've started two hugelkulture beds because they allow me to gather branches, chop wood and dig holes - all things I can do despite Bermuda grass. I'm clearing out the storm drains in the neighborhood for organic material and stealing sticks from neighbors' lawns for the wood. Doing this helps me. I like to think it helps everyone.
I must keep moving. Lives depend on it. Mine most of all.
Keep the faith.