I remember the first time I felt depressed. I was a junior in high school. One afternoon, I started crying and I couldn’t stop for days. There was no trigger for my tears other than a sudden, insufferable feeling that my life—that all of our lives—are void of any meaning.
That was twenty years ago. I know that since that happened to me, I’ve felt plenty of joy. I know I felt joy last week, last month, last year.
But yesterday, without warning, the same irrational darkness took hold of my brain.
I know that what I’m feeling is a symptom of depression. I know that it’s going to go away. But this logic isn’t making it any easier to get out of bed, to clean my apartment, to eat something other than the pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream I just swallowed down (and I don’t usually even like ice cream).
All I can do is make a small resolution to do something. For now, that thing will be the dishes. I will get up, I will walk to the sink, and I will wash them. Right now, that’s the small victory I need.