It has been a summer. In fact, it has been a year. A year and a half. At the end of which, I’m alive, but need the help of a special friend to keep doing that.

The radio silence of the past few months wasn’t a coincidence. The fact that my life has become increasingly busy had a little bit to do with the frequency of posts on this blog dropping, however, there was a bigger player in the game. Someone—or rather something—I’ve been playing an unwilling game of charades with for far too long.

The diagnosis of severe depression and moderately severe anxiety wasn’t surprising. It’s also probably not surprising to you, dear reader, that yet another person has this diagnosis—people left and right seem to be doing worse and worse still nowadays. They talk about an epidemic of loneliness—it makes only sense that there would be an epidemic of depressive disorders coming hand-in-hand with that.

There was more to the diagnosis, and the other part was a surprise to me—one I wasn’t too happy with. I’d forgotten about this detail until I saw my doctor two weeks ago to ask for medication. You see, I got my diagnosis in February. My doctor strongly recommended antidepressants but said I had to decide to take them. I tried to go without them. Therapy wasn’t helping much and after visiting home, sweet home California this summer, things went even further south. Finally, I decided this September that I’d accept the help of medication. When my doctor was prescribing me sertraline, she said, “This is a three-birds-with-one-stone solution. It should mellow out the ups and downs that come with borderline, too.’

Having forgotten that part of my diagnosis (to be fair, I barely remembered anything from that February meeting), I was reminded that the struggle of the past few months wasn’t just something I thought up. I had kept telling myself I was just lazy—it can’t be impossible to start a simple task like putting together a newsletter for my employer or going for a short run. It can’t be that hard to control the ups and downs of my emotions. It can’t be that unthinkable to be content. But it turned out it is—it’s literally physically impossible as the happy hormones behind these things aren’t working as they should in my body.

I honestly don’t fully understand it and I won’t pretend otherwise. But knowing that trying to live my life normally right now is like trying to run with both legs broken has already made a difference. The fact that I’ve accepted help—and there’s some hope in a better tomorrow now—has made a difference. Having a diagnosis and actively working on healing myself has made a difference.

I do hope to get back on track with regular posting. Maybe I’ll finally be able to revisit my goodbye trip and finish that series. (It was far too painful to keep doing so before.) Maybe I’ll be able to find and talk about the pretty things in this place that I now unwillingly call home. Maybe there will be more funny posts, more running, more traveling, more life. I certainly hope so.

With this, I leave you, my dear friends. Let’s start with a blog post every two weeks—here’s my accountability bit: I’ll see you October 17.

I wish you a happy day full of beautiful autumnal light. May the bright colors of this season bring joy into your life.

Much love,
—P