It began on a Thursday afternoon. This was my time—set aside for just me and whatever I wanted to do. It was a recent margin I’d built into my week—an afternoon alone, while my husband was gone volunteering, and the time was all mine to do as I pleased: read, crochet, listen to music.
I chose to lie on the couch with the blanket pulled over my head.
I recognized the behavior almost at once. This was old behavior—from 18 years ago.
So I called my psych nurse, the one who manages my meds, and through her assistant, got the message to and from her that my depression was returning, and I probably needed to increase my antidepressant.
It descended as a blanket of depression that afternoon. Or, as my husband described it later, it was as if I drove off a cliff. It happened that fast. Within four hours.
Or did it? Hadn’t it been building all year?
A year of making withdrawals from my emotional tank. I’d been trying in recent weeks to identify boundaries and margins and protect that emotional space, but I was already depleted, and each withdrawal was taking more, until there was just. none. left.
January–March: dealing with chronic pain.
April–June: helping aging parents who live far away.
July: vacation, but it was too long away from home, too hot, too much.
August: recognizing ongoing communication patterns in myself, my marriage, and my family—hard soul-searching efforts and discussions.
September: two particularly difficult days, and the last of my emotional reserves were all used up.
So maybe this afternoon of October 1st, curled up on the couch under the blanket, wasn’t really a surprise after all. I’d been calling it “emotional depletion,” but I knew enough to mention it to my psych nurse at my three-month check-in, so when I called 20 days later, she wasn’t completely surprised that it had gotten darker and deeper.
Thursday evening, I was irritable and crabby. It felt like I was looking at everything around me through sunglasses—everything had a darker shade to it.
Friday I increased my meds. But it’s gonna take a while for me to notice any effects. So a beautiful day in the mountains wasn’t complete joy—I had to really focus and practice staying in the moment, or my negative thinking would swoop in.
And perhaps that’s what surprised me the most—how quickly depression thoughts returned!
I’ve been practicing “thinking about what I’m thinking about” for years. Taking every thought captive unto Christ. Replacing negative self-talk with the truth of God’s Word. I’ve been practicing this, and teaching it to my Fresh Hope group, for years. I have charts and handouts with “not this thought—think this instead.”
But the thoughts that depression brings are their own monster.
I was thinking things on the e-bike ride in the mountains that never would have entered my mind two days prior! Like, as we rode behind the hospital, “Is there a psych ward there? If I checked in, could they make this go away in a day or two?” Or, “Here we go again. And it’s only going downhill from here. Might not go away this time.” Or, “I’m such a downer to anyone around me.” There were many such thoughts, just in an hour.
I remember my therapist from 18 years ago telling me that those weren’t my thoughts. That it was depression talking. And honestly, I accepted him at his word, but didn’t really believe it.
Until now.
Because these things I was thinking were so out of character for me. They were nothing I would have said to myself on Wednesday. And here on Friday, they entered my mind unbidden and sounded almost like truth.
Praise God that I had been practicing talking God’s truth to myself over these past several years, because I was able to recognize that the thoughts didn’t reflect what I actually believed. It was depression distorting the way I was seeing myself and my future—depression whispering in my ear. The thoughts still came, but I didn’t have to accept them as truth.
One of the hardest things about this is that I’ve been depression-free for eight years. Eighteen years ago, I went through a 10-year journey, in and out of depressive episodes. And with the exception of a brief hiccup last spring, when my psych nurse and I dropped my single antidepressant too low, I haven’t felt sad or down or depressed.
Even that brief situation with the lower dose only lasted a week, and it didn’t feel like this. Then, I was just sad—extremely sad. But this time, it’s all the old “feels.” All the familiar patterns and thoughts and emotions that plagued me for 10 years.
It’s almost like an old friend, in its familiarity and, dare I say, comfort?
No, it’s not comfortable.
More like putting on my old ratty sweatshirt with holes and stains and tears. Ugly, yet somehow comfortable.
I’m trying not to give in to the comfort. Because it’s not true—it’s a false comfort. It’s a lie. Again, it’s those whispers that depression is telling me:
“Come closer. Sit down. Remember what this feels like.”
Whispers of a Siren’s Song, luring me until I crash into the rocky shore.
No, I don’t want to remember.
I want to fight. I want to stay emotionally healthy. Mentally healthy.
But fighting looks different to me now than it did 18 years ago.
This time, I recognized what was happening. I made the phone call. I told my husband. I increased my medication as directed. I went to the mountains even though depression came along for the ride. And when the thoughts came, I noticed them. I named them. I challenged them with what I know to be true.
I don’t know how long this episode will last. I don’t know whether the medication change will be enough or whether there will be more steps ahead. And I’m trying very hard not to let depression answer those questions for me.
Because depression wants to tell me that I’m back where I was 18 years ago.
But I’m not.
Those eight years of emotional and mental health didn’t disappear on Thursday afternoon. Neither did everything I learned during the 10 difficult years that came before them. I’m not starting over. I’m starting from here—with experience, tools, people who know what’s happening, medical help, and a faith that has been tested before.
And maybe that’s what fighting looks like today.
Not pretending I’m okay. Not demanding that I feel better tomorrow. Not believing every thought that enters my mind.
Just doing the next healthy thing.
And then the next one.
If you’ve been doing well for a long time and suddenly find yourself facing familiar symptoms again, maybe you need to hear what I’m telling myself right now:
A recurrence does not erase your recovery.
Reach out. Tell someone. Call your doctor. Use the tools you’ve learned. And when your diagnosis starts whispering that everything you’ve gained is gone, remember: you are not standing where you stood the first time.
Neither am I.
And today, that gives me hope.
If you’re struggling, reach out to your doctor or a trusted person. In the US, you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
About the Author: Peggy has been involved with Fresh Hope as a Group Facilitator for over 8 years and as the Hope Coach Trainer for over 6 years. She can be reached at peggy@freshhope.us.
