A BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO CASTING A PATRONUS

AKA How to detangle yourself from the Big Sad Blanket

I lie in bed feeling like I'm bound to it by my blanket and look around my room. There are clothes on the floor that I wore last week. An open packet of biscuits sit on my table, providing nourishment to the colony of ants that reside somewhere within my walls. Books are strewn across the whole room, fiction, non fiction, self help, planners, journals, the whole lot. But none of them have been cracked open for atleast two weeks. My laptop beckons me from my messy desk, whispering to me to forget about all the work I have to get done for yet another day and binge watch Masterchef Australia. The fact that I've only been able to watch reality TV for the past few weeks just further confirms my suspicion. I have once again found myself in the middle of a depressive episode. I turn around and bury my face in my pillow. I want to scream into it, but I'm too tired to.

I've done this charade enough times to know what I need to do. I need to talk to someone. Someone I trust. But no one gets it. No one really relates. And the last time I let myself be vulnerable enough to ask for help, I was slapped in the face by lousy, half assed responses that served as high fives to my drowning hand. So, I guess that means that talking to someone is out of the question.

Which means I have to help myself. Something I supremely suck at. But it’s either that or lose a couple more days to the sadness clawing at my insides. So I decide to try.

Now, I know that there are a couple things that can be done. I can replace my friends with a journal and pour my heart out into it, a technique that has always provided results in the past. But that endeavour would involve me leaving my bed, so that’s out the window. Which leaves typing in my notes app, which is also not so convenient considering the fetal position I have assumed in bed. The only remaining form of letting my thoughts out is by saying them out loud. I look around my room for my cat, but she seems to have left me all alone. My eyes land on my water bottle. I name it Emmanuel and start ranting to him. At some point, I end up recording my conversation with Emmanuel on my phone, for future reference purposes. Emmanuel quickly becomes the best listener I know. I am left feeling a little better, but still pretty shitty, because you know, depression and all. I need something more.

So what should be the next step in my DIY antidepressant routine? I'm up to my eyeballs in unreleased feelings, so I think I should probably do something about that. Which means only one thing. It's time to watch a movie where a beloved dog dies. 20 minutes later (I don't have time to waste on all the happy stuff, so I skip straight to the end) I'm inconsolable as Owen Wilson delivers his final monologue about how extraordinary his dog made me feel. The credits start rolling, but I'm still crying. Except now, it's not just because Marley died. I'm crying for me, for my insides that alternate between feeling everything and feeling nothing. I'm crying for the people I love who are forced to deal with this hollow shell of the person they knew. I'm crying because I feel terrible, and because I feel terrible about feeling terrible.

Eventually, I run out of tears. My sobs subside. My cat finds her way back into my room and slides into her usual spot. I bury my face into her silken coat and thank god that, unlike Owen Wilson, I still have my wonderful pet. I am filled with a feeling that bears some semblance to serenity. I feel calm adjacent.

Now that I've got a handle on keeping the demons at bay, it's time for self care. Pleasurable self care, that is, not a hectic skin care routine, which comes with a scheduled breakdown caused by putting on sunscreen before the moisturiser.

So I google ‘depression self care’ and paw at my screen to try and find a result that is not “try meditating!”. Brother, the last thing I should do right now is be alone with my thoughts. If I meditate a little too hard, I might actually find the motivation to finally take that step and kill myself. The only reason I’m still alive is because of how good I am at procrastinating.

They keep suggesting a long shower and I cannot help but feel attacked by this particular nugget of wisdom. See, when you're depressed, personal hygiene is not really up there in your list of priorities. In fact, there is no list. Napping is the only real priority.

The thought of having to step out of the shower into the chilly air of my bathroom to dry myself and put on fresh clothes sounds so….challenging. Tiring. So overwhelmingly hectic. But I know that if I do succeed in completing this herculean task, I will feel some form of achievement. And that's gotta release some happy hormones right? Time to go mining for serotonin.

So 5 minutes later and an extensive pep talk later I've grabbed the clothes that are easiest to wear from my wardrobe and march myself into the bathroom.

The shower is…quiet. Not the kind of quiet that scares me, but the kind that calms. I take a seat on the floor and let the water form rivulets and snake across my skin.

The last time I sat on the floor of the shower, I was a weeping mess. I had collapsed because my legs gave in and it felt like the dark void inside me was starting to leak out. All my life force had been drained out of me. I felt unbearably empty and so I sat there, unable to move until my fingertips got wrinkly.

Sitting at the same spot once again and knowing that I could get up anytime I wanted made me feel …powerful? At peace? Good?

It filled me with faith in myself. I have fought this battle before & come out on top. I will come out on top this time around too.

I get up and carry on with my shower. I force myself to hum a little song and sway slowly and deliberately as soap suds envelope my body. The hum turns into a whistle and before I know it, I'm singing. And I no longer have to force any of it. I can't help but smile. And then I smile again, because I made myself smile. Serotonin has been found.

"I'm okay", I think and then I say it out loud to affirm it. And for the first time in a long time, I'm not lying.

I dress and waltz into the kitchen. I put water to boil and reach over for the tea. Coffee is to wake the mind. Tea is to soothe the soul. My cat weaves in and out between my ankles, forming figure eights. I pick her up and kiss her little nose and tell her how in so many ways, she saved me. She doesn't say anything in return. Shy little baby.

My tea is sweet and the cardamom brings it to life. I'm on the porch. My grandmother is asleep in her room and I tell myself to give her a hug when she wakes up. I sit on the steps and sip my tea. The world around me slowly goes out of focus. I'm so grateful for the cardamom in my tea. So grateful for my warm, loving grandmother. So grateful for my wonderful, wonderful cat. For my life changing bathroom, for Owen Wilson, for Emmanuel and mostly for myself. I'm grateful that I decided to help myself. I'm grateful that I followed through. And I'm grateful for all my earlier episodes, because they gave me the strength to get through this one. I'm grateful that I'm still here. And I'm grateful that I'm still me.

Depression - a billion, idk it's kicked my ass multiple times

Buuuuuut,

V - 1

That's new. I'm on the scoreboard now. Depression better watch it's back.