I cried a couple of days ago. It wasn’t because of one thing. It wasn’t because of a hundred things. It was because of ALL THE THINGS… and because of nothing at all, all at the same time. I don’t cry often (although I’m not sure how much of that is me, and how much of that is repression from my mood stabilizers).

The last time I cried was Septermber 27th, 2023. The only reason I remember the exact date is that it was the day we had to have my Shepherd – and emotional support animal, and best friend of nine years – put down. That day I was prepared. We had tissues in hand as we sat on the living room floor, loving on him, petting him, and letting him know we were there, as the incredibly kind and gentle vet helped him transition.

This time I was caught completely off guard. I’d just gotten through the first half of my morning routine – feeding the dog, emptying the dishwasher, making coffee, taking my morning supplements, and giving the dog her meds (always in that exact order). I sat down to do my meditation and journal, and… sudden tears. A lot of them. I actually tried to ignore it at first, but the more I tried to resist it, the more the tears flowed. I was irrationally upset that I was crying, which made me cry harder.

All told, I cried for the whole first half of the day.

One of the interesting things about having a mental illness is the mental gymnastics I go through trying to determine if my big feelings (or lack of feelings) are due to bipolar, or simply due to life being hard sometimes. Is this the start of a depressive episode, or is plain-old transient sadness? Will it pass? Am I sad like a depressed person? Or sad like a “normal” person? Normal people cry for no reason, right? It’s normal to be down for a few days, right? How about a week? Two weeks? What about when it’s dragged on for a month or two or five?

What I decided that morning was that yes it’s normal to cry sometimes. Yes, it’s normal to cry when you’re sad. Or hurt. Or angry. Or happy. Or feeling any kind of emotion at all.

But that’s not why I was crying.

A lot of people, when they think of someone who is clinically depressed, picture someone crying and lying in bed all day with the shades drawn (and that is certainly the experience for some people.) But I’ve mostly exclusively experienced smiling depression. I’ll know I’m depressed, because I eventually see it, like I’m on the outside looking in. But I keep doing all the things. I keep cleaning the house. I keep taking the kids to where they need to go. I keep up with school. I keep busy and keep smiling and keep up a friendly face. The worst I ever, ever was – at a depth so low it still scares me to think about – Tegan was in her first play, The Wizard of Oz. I was driving her back and forth every day, socializing with all the other moms, volunteering to hand out programs in the lobby. No one knew. It was business as usual. And that’s my typical pattern. I mask and pretend and deny and push through…

Until I can’t. Until I end up sobbing on a tear-stained couch at 9:00 in the morning on a random Tuesday.

I’ve been depressed for a long time. I can never remember when it starts because 1) it starts so gradually that I often can’t see it until the water’s over my head 2) Faking it fools even me in the beginning and 3) I distract myself with the aforementioned game of “depression or run-of-the-mill sadness?”

It could have started when Django died. It could have been January. It could have been shortly after January, when one of my kids started going through something very difficult. It could have been February 8th (I’m making that date up) or February 29th or March 4th because who the hell knows.

Regardless of when it started… this is where I am.

I’m on the outside looking in again, and I can see it. I always recognize when the scale has tipped when I realize I’ve completely withdrawn into myself, ensconced in the suck. When I’ve stopped sleeping. When I eat too much, or I don’t eat at all. When I lack the energy for… anything. When the simplest of tasks seem very, very hard. When I completely stop replying to texts (if that includes you, I love you. And I’m sorry.) When my whole life’s purpose is to stay upright from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed. I’ve reached the portion of the program where I can’t fake it anymore. I’ve reached the portion of the program where I have nothing left. And I’m saying it out loud both because it helps with accountability as I try to claw my way out, and because it is comforting, even if the tiniest bit, to know that someone cares. Depression is lonely – which makes the fact that I push everyone away that much more confounding – and the idea that there is someone out there who cares and who wishes well for me is… reassuring.

I’ll be okay. I always am. But right now, my job is to hold on. I’m screaming out into the void and concentrating on breathing in and out. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Until the scale once again tips in the other direction.