I think I feel it coming on. Sometimes I don’t know until it’s there. But the flattening of the affect, the disinterest in initiating conversation, that hollow heaviness settling in my chest, pushing up against my throat, making me almost feel like crying, except I don’t feel sad. Only weighted down.
I’m kind of glad. I’ve started seeing a therapist again, and the three times I’ve gone over the past month, I’ve been in a good mood, so I haven’t been able to articulate the depression. Because when I’m feeling good, the depressed me is so very much a stranger, one for whom I have no right to speak.
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