I long held the naïve assumption that depression and anxiety were conspiring bedfellows. They arrived together on a quest of destruction of everything I thought I knew and held dear.
Instead, as I tick off the 200th day since I’ve taken an antidepressant I come to the sad and hollow realisation that anxiety can and does continue to flourish long after the chaos of depression has subsided.
I’m happy, that much I know.
Yet for reasons both known and unexplainable, my anxiety has bloomed. My nerves are shot, sleep is hard to find, the knocks at the door have me freezing in fear of……something. Unwanted memories overwhelm me at the most unexpected times, taking me down paths I never again want to walk down. Crowds are still making me twitchy and leave me longing to slam the door, pull the curtains and just shut everyone and everything out.
I’m at a loss.
I’m not depressed.
But there is something missing or broken in me which is stopping me from making the most of this new lease at life. I hate that I might be wasting something which isn’t granted to everyone who has battled depression and PTSD. I hate that I might not be strong enough to make the most of life, that my fears will keep me locked away in a prison of my own making.
Life after depression wasn’t meant to be like this, I thought the hard part was done, yet it really seems the hard work of reclaiming my life is only just beginning and I’ve no idea what to do.