Is it Depression or...?

Whenever I read those questions I want to scream “Have you seen this world? Who doesn’t feel that way?” But I don’t scream and I check the box that says “No”.

If February was expecting me to greet her with renewed enthusiasm and motivation then she’s probably somewhat disappointed. After a slow start to the year, I thought I might enter the second month with a little more fire in me. But the opposite has been true. I have been feeling more tired and less patient. I’ve also been experiencing what feels like a form of depression.

As I type this, I’m looking out at the bare branches of the trees that surround our house. The steady snowfall that began in the early hours has covered the lawn outside and transformed an already-beautiful landscape into a winter wonderland. To say that I am grateful that we get to call this sanctuary our home is an understatement.

Each day, I find myself easily able to connect with gratitude. And each day I also find myself just as easily feeling a sense of despair.

I usually wake up alone since Leon is working in the city during the week and can only be here at weekends. Much as I miss his presence when he’s not here, we’re no strangers to being apart. We were in a long distance relationship between London and New York for two and a half years so this isn’t unusual for us. We started with space. I’m also someone who’s very content with my own company. Maybe too content at times.

Still, as I make my way to the kitchen each morning, I often have the fleeting thought that I could simply spend the day in bed and no one would know. There are no children to tend to, no pets to take care of and, if I wanted to, I could stay under the covers all day without anyone being any the wiser.

But I don’t stay under the covers. I prepare my ginger tea and I head to the second bedroom that is our home office. Sometimes I stretch on my yoga mat but often I need at least a couple of cups of tea beforehand to help ease the post-tumor nausea that still bothers me a full two years after the craniotomy.

By the time I sit at my desk I’ve usually switched my pajamas for my working-from-home attire. Navy blue yoga pants that are old enough to have pilled, and one of two polo neck sweaters that I’ve been wearing on rotation.

I open my MacBook, check my emails along with the comments on a couple of websites where my work is featured, and then it’s time to begin.

But, begin what?

I find myself looking out of the window at the beautiful bare-branched trees because I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. The panic that wants to rise up from my stomach to my throat sends me scurrying back to the kitchen, busying myself with the all-important task of making another cup of tea because I don’t want to sit with my feelings.

Yet my feelings persist. A stream of chatter in my mind that loops around like the songs on my favorite playlist.

What are you doing? Look at the time. You need to get started. Start writing. No, draft a new post for social media. No, reply to your messages. No, no, no. They can wait. You need to create something new. No, you need to connect with people. Ok, breathe, just breathe. Continue putting the workshop outline together. You need to move your body. Do some cleaning. That counts as movement. Don’t just sit here doing nothing. Do something. Anything. What are you doing? Look at the time. You need to get started. Please, just get started. Look how hard Leon is working. Look at what he’s providing. You need to do more. You need to earn more. Come on. Get it together. What are you doing? Look at the time. Please get it together. Please.

I panic. I freeze. I freeze in the panic. I scroll social media and see videos of dead children in Gaza. I see headlines about Taylor Swift and carbon emissions. I see two cats having an animated conversation.

A text comes through on my phone because once again I’ve turned off the Focus setting as I’m worried someone will need to reach me and they won’t be able to because I’m busy focusing on the work I’m not getting done. The irony.

I feel something close to tears that might be guilt, might be despair, might be hormones.

I suddenly think of the post I read about menopausal women leaving the workplace in droves, midlife angst causing them to question their worth and doubt their contribution.

I think of my own work and the midlife membership club I closed in December after two years. I think of the coaching page I’ve taken down from my website because, at this moment in time, I no longer feel called to guide anyone else through their experiences, only compelled to tell the truth about mine.

I have a list of things to do on my Notes app. I always have a list. But lately, I no longer work through the list in the methodical way I’ve done for years and instead I open and close the app and tell myself that what I need to do first is go for a walk to clear my head and that will help. That will definitely help.

On my walk, I think of all the times I’ve been given questionnaires before seeing doctors or specialists and how there’s almost always a section that screens for depression.

Do you have little interest or pleasure in doing things? Are you feeling down or hopeless? Are you having trouble concentrating? Do you feel that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down?

Whenever I read those questions I want to scream “Have you seen this world? Who doesn’t feel that way?” But I don’t scream and I check the box that says “No”.

There’s a fog in my brain that might be tiredness, might be despair, might be hormones.

As I continue my walk, I am in awe of the nature that surrounds me, gratitude bursting to the surface once more. Trees upon trees upon trees and a blown-open sky that has seen it all before. I feel safer. Held. It’s going to be ok. I’m going to be ok.

I get back to the house and make brunch. Gratitude continues to warm my body as I eat. What a gift it is to able to nourish myself this way. I have good food and clean water. I have love and shelter and a peaceful environment. I have so much.

But now it’s the afternoon and I can’t point to anything worthwhile I’ve produced today. Anything I’ve done to make a difference. A new loop of chatter begins in my head about hustle culture and the glorification of productivity. About capitalism and worth and the ways we measure ourselves mercilessly. Intellectually, I know better than to judge myself against such systems. But I still feel a sense of unease about what I haven’t achieved today.

The best part of my day is a few hours later when I run a bath. Soaking in the tub, I listen to the first few minutes of a podcast and then my own creative spark comes alive and I begin to write what you are now reading.

And that’s pretty much where February has found me. In a haze of shifting emotions. Hope and fear and a little bit of self-loathing. Gratitude, joy, anger and uncertainty. Hormones racing, brain stalling, heart shattering. Over and over again.

I don’t think I am depressed (although I will discuss this with my doctor at my upcoming appointment). I think I’m having a reasonable response to being 49 years old and in peri/menopause. I think I’m having a natural reaction to seeing a planet in chaos and people in crisis. I think our hearts are supposed to shatter every now and again because that’s what keeps us human.

I think there are cycles and seasons for everything, and this is simply the one I find myself in right now.