The Weight of Simple Tasks with Chronic Depression

I am not a psychiatrist, nor a therapist. I have no education in this subject; I just live with it every single day. I have had depression ever since I can remember. It is part of who I am. The majority of my life it has consumed me. It has taken me to very dark places and it has been an ongoing battle to this day. However, I have learned to outlive it. I conquer each day and continue to percervier when the odds are not in my favor. Unfortunately, life seems to enjoy hitting me with a bag of bricks any chance it gets, but I'm still standing.

In no means do I announce depression is no longer with me. It just does not control my every move anymore. I maintain a constant struggle to manage the smallest of things to include self-care, a clean home, eating nutritious meals, keeping my body moving, adequate sleep, and the list goes on. It isn't easy, even for those that haven't lived a life like mine.

This morning, I watched a Reel on Instagram made by a woman grieving her husband. If you've followed along, you know I also grieve the loss of my husband. This widow was celebrating some of the small, but SO BIG, accomplishments that she has achieved recently. Those who suffer with depression know, the smallest tasks are daunting in the vilest way. It was encouraging to see another widow achieving such significant milestones. One of these, the simple task of brushing one's teeth.

I felt a moment of security when I heard her triumphs. I am not alone in my fight to do the 'small stuff'. I'm sitting here on my back porch watching my toddler and puppy play hide and seek with each other. I wish I had the energy to go and play. What tells me that I continue to outlive this depression, is not that I am simply alive; it is that I know that one day I will be better. I no longer dwell in the thought that this is it; the be all end all.

Ha-ha, now she is running with a glob of dried grass and attempting to feed it to the dog. Poor pup!

For countless years, I have told doctors, "If I miss one day, I will miss the next." I am referring to my medications. It is fascinating how immediate the withdrawal is from the prescriptions I am on. All I have to do is miss one single dose and I've set myself up for failure. By day three, it is noticeable to others. However, my husband could always catch it on day two. Post 24-hours, I have difficulty opening my eyes the next morning. I find it challenging to pry myself from my bed. My husband used to nudge me and say, "Go, get up." He despised a second alarm. If I didn't get up on that first one, he was perturbed. I admired his need for time structure.

Prior to meeting my husband, I would miss my medications so frequently that my ability to be consistent, reliable, and see positivity was debilitating. Just before meeting him, I was at my absolute worst. My mental state was in crisis. My house was horrendous. I was at the point where a boss told me that I need to make sure I am wearing socks with my shoes and shoes that don't stink because she was receiving complaints. I wore dirty clothes all the time. My kids lived among heaps of clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, a toilet rimmed with urine along the bottom, a shower stained so badly it couldn't be cleaned, and more.

Over time, I healed. I found myself. I learned to accept that I can be loved.

My husband was an amazing support system. He encouraged me in so many ways. Now, I am struggling again. I want to make him proud, but first, I have to make myself proud. That was the key. He had a special way of boosting my confidence and I would feel PRIDE. He was a bed-maker. If you aren't one, you know what I mean. So, my house shaped up. He got me through my funks. He even showed me tough love when I needed to figure it out on my own.

It has been six months without his daily affirmations. I practice my own, but it isn't the same. I frequent old messages from him to push me through the toughest moments. Though, I still am fighting old battles that have returned since his passing. My biggest struggle is keeping my home intact. Children make that difficult already, but now I have to rise above my grief and chronic depression to make sure a wrapper makes it all the way to the trash can. My bedside table has plastic water bottles as decoration, empty, nearly empty, halfway empty, and full. My room splattered with a mixture of dirty and clean clothes. The sink full of dishes and the dishwasher full of clean ones. Toys strewn about the house, dog toys, more clothes, and a tremendous amount of clutter. Jeff would be beside himself.

Yesterday, I talked out loud to him, promising him that I would bite the bullet and take care of it. I cleaned the entire living room today. Now as the day comes to an end, the living room is decorated with toys all over again.

One of the numerous things Jeff excelled in was discipline. He was regimented, thrived on routine, and rules. I always struggled with making sure my children participate in household chores. The 'fight' is trying and my energy level is so shot that the thought of battling it is debilitating. Which means, it is left for me to do it all myself and I tend to let my children walk all over me.

Goodness did that ruffle his feathers when we first started living together. He built the framework for all of us to live cohesively and maintain a proper home. Today I have been begging myself to 'get it together'. My body has reverted back to these old habits. The gravitational pull to remain horizontal is so strong that I am surprised I haven't been pulled through the Earth's crust. While that may be the case, I'm not living in mold; I don't have flies roaming the kitchen; I am not living in filth; I am just living in clutter, and I do clean every day... it just isn't quality care. I can do better.

Someone mentioned to me that it is time to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with my boys. They are old enough to listen and realize that just because Jeff is gone, doesn't mean the rules go to the wayside. Eating and beverages other than water in the bedroom is not allowed. Putting your clothes in a hamper is expected. Cleaning your own bathroom is expected. So on and so forth. I plan to have this conversation within the next week.

Currently, I am doing the work. I am taking the actions that I am capable of at this time and slowly working each day to progress further. There isn't a timeline. I am a good mother, a hard-working woman, and making it on my own. Each day with my children is precious and I plan to raise them to be independent and capable people. Their contribution matters and so does mine. It is hard as **ck and it is kicking my a**, but one day, I am going to be making that Reel about my accomplishments of the 'small stuff'. The tiny things that seem like nothing to others, but to me it seems nearly impossible.

It isn't impossible. Positivity will make it possible. I can be positive, even with chronic depression. I can be positive, even as a widow. I am a mother, a writer, a lover, and a fighter. I will keep going. I will keep pushing... and I will d*mn sure be making my husband proud.