Pretending I'm Not Depressed

Every facet of the struggle deserves to be seen

It’s one thing to consider whether or not you are depressed.

To talk to my therapist, to say for months on end that surely it’s not, because it looks and feels different. Sort of.

To really evaluate and try to determine if this newest bout of melancholy and lack of motivation that has been plaguing me for months is in fact depression. It became clearer when my therapist told me this week—once I told her I thought I should call my doctor—that I should in fact do just that.

I had a video appointment on Friday and my doctor is going to wean me off of Cymbalta (prescribed to help with chronic pain I face), and start me on a low dose of Paxil. My doctor is also going to run some preliminary tests to see if there are auto immune things that can be ruled out as a source of my pain and other symptoms. She also increased my muscle relaxer count so I have some for bad days, as previously I only had enough for one per night.

My pain is always this fluctuating thing—some days it would hover around a 5-6, and others higher. Very rarely is it below a 5, on a good day. I’ve had to adjust my normal over the last few months, where I haven’t had a single day under 6 since the beginning of the year, maybe longer. Time gets confusing with pain always encroaching. There was a time, a year or two back, when I had better days—pain levels at a 3 or 4. I really, really miss those days. It was prior to Kris’ cancer diagnosis. Is there a connection? Very likely.

My therapist helped me to see this past week that I’ve been in a harder season for a while now. As Kris settled into a new normal with his treatment and the drug study, our oldest was diagnosed with a very challenging mental illness that was difficult to navigate, for her especially. She hasn’t been the same since. It must be so disorienting to be given a diagnosis like she was given, and to look out and realize the rest of your life will revolve around this and staying medicated. I don’t envy the road ahead of her and as a mother, it has broken my heart to know all too well what it is like to be 25 and feel like your body and brain have betrayed you.

As our lives began to settle surounding that, my pain continued to build. Even as I began to understand how I was always physically bracing for impact as I stepped into 2026, and began to unlearn the unhealthy patterns of survival, my pain wouldn’t let up. Countless therapy sessions and we were no closer to identifying the source of the increased physical pain.

And this year has been not without its difficulties. Several stiuations arose, back to back, threatening to overwhelm me completely. But still I weathered it. I believed I was trusting God with the hard stuff, and determined to keep moving forward vs. getting stuck in a spiral of depression yet again. And I think that was true. I was doing that. But week after week after week of trudging through led to more exhaustion. More struggle to drag myself up from my slumber to start my day. It brought less motivation, less ability to engage in acts of regular showering, brushing my teeth—the shameful things no one wants to admit they struggle with.

So as I caught my therapist up this week after a month between sessions, and I told her I probably needed to call my doctor, this time instead of just listening quietly, she spoke up and acknowledged that yes, it was time to call the doctor. And I feel like if she has been listening to me and seeing me struggle and decline and decides to speak up, there is likely wisdom in it.

I’m sitting here again, as I reflect on what I want to write about this week, and the shame tries to creep in. It tells me that this was stupid and people are going to be disappointed to open up their email or Substack and see a dumb recap of my life for the last however long…and then I stop myself. I realize that I am spiraling, worrying about something I simply don’t want to care about. First and foremost, I write for God and anyone he has called to bear witness to all that I am. And then for me. For therapy, for release, for being witnessed, in whatever frame of mind I am in. Sometimes I have capacity for something deeper. And other times, like now, I’m learning to be okay with this me. Because they are not separate parts, distinct beings. All of these moods and moments make up who I am, and no part is greater than the other. They are all valid. They all matter. They all deserve to be seen. All facets that make up the person God has designed me to be are here, and I don’t have to hide myself anymore. Even typing that feels uncomfortable. So lest I keep babbling, I’ll sign off for now and sit with the way it feels. Because it’s also okay to sit with things that are hard.

I took a break after writing the text above. The pool water is still a little cold to just chill in comfortably, but the sun was shining and it seemed like a good idea to get some natural vitamin D and try to soak up some natural medicine. Just being out in the sun, wearing a new swimsuit filled me with a lightness I needed. I decided to set aside the insecurities about my body and let my best friend take some photos of me. In the tiny pockets of sunshine, as the clouds kept moving in, I gave thanks to God for the blessings that abound in my life. I’m grateful that He gave me opportunities to learn how to sit with the depression and to still find moments of joy in the midst of the heaviness. It’s important, even if you don’t feel fully joyful, to still do silly things or get out in the sunshine when you can.

Jamie

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