At the age of 14 I sunk into a deep, deep depression. So deep that I could not see a way out. So deep that while I never contemplated suicide, I kept it in my back pocket as a last resort. So deep that I spent two full months in a psychiatric unit of a hospital because there was no other option.

In the 22 years since then, I have battled the occasional emotional ups-and-downs, the funks, and I’ve even had to go back on anti-depressants a couple of times, but nothing even close to what I experienced back then. The last bout was back in 2001. I went to see a psychologist and ended up on Paxil. They both helped tremendously and for the first time in my life I felt like I’d conquered the depression and anxiety.

Until last week.

It’s back. I thought it was a funk. It’s not. I know the difference. With a funk, I can see the end of it – I know it’s temporary. I can feel it. This feels so different. I’m starting to pull away from everyone and everything.

I don’t want to go on and on about it because I know what I need to do. I already made an appointment. I hope to avoid medication this time mainly because I think I might have to stop taking my Topamax. Too many meds messing up my brain.

I hate this. I hate this more than anything else in my life. I hate it more than migraines. I can feel myself slipping and sinking each day. Each minute. It hurts. I looked at Griffin this evening and I told him how sorry I was. I was sorry for passing on my fucked up genes to him (god how I hope he never has to know what depression feels like). I was sorry that I wasn’t doing all the things I should be doing with him (guilt, guilt, guilt). If I don’t get better for myself, I need to get better for him.

So, there you have it. A deep, dark secret and a big confession all on a late Saturday night. What more could you ask for?

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