For a day off from work, my day was rather productive. I washed the dishes I had left all weekend in the sink. I did laundry, including the bed linen. Then I put away that laundry, which is a whole separate task. I vacuumed my bedroom. I took out the trash and recycling. I wiped down the stove. I made bread dough; I’ll bake a loaf tomorrow.
For me, that’s a one-in-a-million day. Often, I’m lucky if I can accomplish one of those tasks in a single day; perhaps three in a week. But since I started my most recent dose of anti-depressants, I’ve felt a real change.
It started before I left for my trip this weekend. There I was, going to a new city, to stay with new people, to do this new thing I’ve been wanting for so long. And I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t convinced it would go badly. I was actually excited.
My doctor warned me the medication would affect my anxiety before my depression. She warned me the doses could get quite high before one felt any effects on the depression at all. I’ve been waiting for that moment—that moment I’ve read about from so many other people living with the same problems I do—when you suddenly notice that everything isn’t as bad as it was yesterday.
I think this weekend was my moment.