It’s winter. I go outside to my car to find that it’s stuck in a snowdrift. I don’t have a shovel, so I have to dig my car out of the snow with my hands. I don’t have gloves. All I want is to get in my car, but my fingers are turning blue. I’m feeling dizzy and overwhelmed. The world feels like endless inches of snow, under a grey sky. It starts snowing, with a wind that whips the snow about my face.
I am so weary. I feel like I have nothing left. I want to give up and go inside, but I fight to keep moving. I am so incredibly tired. I can barely see anything with the snow and wind, but I keep pushing on. I want to get back in the driver’s seat of my life and not let the depression win. Finally me and my frostbitten fingers slide into the front seat and start up the car.
I pull onto the highway thinking, “I’ve done it — I’ve beaten the depression.” Then I unexpectedly hit a patch of black ice called mania. My car skids and slides out of control for what feels like an eternity. I watch myself spinning across the road, spinning out of control. Other cars honk at me, but I have no control of the car. I am powerless. I don’t know what to do. I call all the contacts in my phone and say all sorts of different things. I think I hear the other drivers shouting at me, or is it just my head pounding, my thoughts echoing back?
I finally land in a ditch, a deep snowdrift. Back to depression. I go outside to dig out my car again.
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Thinkstock photo by mariak raynova