It's out there. Sometimes I can feel it, soak it in, revel in it. Sometimes it is elusive, fluttering just out of reach. Lately, I see it through binoculars, enjoyed by others. No matter how hard I try, I cannot pull it in, can't touch it and certainly can't feel it. This is the real disability that comes with depression and anxiety, the inability to feel what is real. I want to be able to do, to feel, to hope.
Love surrounds me, but I don't feel lovable. Worthiness is embedded in my every cell, but I do not feel valuable. I know I have a purpose, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is. I feel expendable.
Even those closest to me do not understand how I can go from capable to inconsolable in a few minutes' time.
At this moment, I am well. I still feel a little shaky, still have minutes when anxiety hobbles me.
I've read so many books on spirituality, on managing anxiety and depression and in my studies have found some ways to cope that don't include the use of medications. That is not to say that I never use Xanax; there is relief, at times, in a tiny fragment of a pill. But I have also learned to use guided imagery, hypnosis, my limitless imagination, to find relief. The same creativity that fuels the dire visions I have of my future also helps me to conceive of a lighter, more carefree life.
I am able to embrace my future. Life and I might just be ableable.
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