Some days, it feels like I’m running in place, like Fred Flintstone revving his feet but not going anywhere. I do the things I know are good for me, but I still feel lost. And when it starts, my old thinking is hard to stop. “Why move my feet if I’m not getting anywhere?” That’s where isolation starts, and depression begins to feed on itself. I keep moving my feet, even when it feels pointless.
I’ve been obsessing over loss, my neighbor passing away, recent plane crashes, the suffering of families I’ve never even met. My brain latches on to every tragedy and refuses to let go. I have to talk about it, simply because I don’t want to talk about it. My reflex is to push it into my ‘dark place’. I even started listening to the Bible, hoping to make better sense of life and loss for myself.
This morning, I remembered a tool my psychiatrist gave me: time-boxing emotions. Give myself ten minutes to sit with sadness, feel it fully, and then get up and do something that makes me happy.
Recovery doesn’t take a break, even when I’m tired of the ache. This too shall pass, if I keep placing one foot in front of the other.
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