Washing the Moldy Blanket
A beginning.
The last blog I wrote on my site Mind Without a Home was February of 2018. I plan on being consistent on this website, blog at least once a week and not disappear for years.
As I write this, Grams, my black cat named after my grandmother, sits on my lap. I love when she does this. My other black cat, Annie after my mother, is not a lap cat. When Annie is not on the cat tree which is centered in the middle of my large bedroom window, she is in the closet. I leave the sliding door to the closet open a foot to allow her easy access. My bedroom window has no covering so that Grams and Annie can look out to the outside world they will never enter. They don’t know that they’re missing out on anything.
24 years ago, I rarely entered the world. To do so was exhausting, just as it was exhausting to shower, dress, talk on the phone, or eat among other things. I was severely depressed and spent days in bed. I was living with my grandmother at the time. My grandmother didn’t judge me. She didn’t berate me. She made certain there was always cake and cheese danish. These two things were mostly all that I ate.
My depression was a moldy blanket that provided no warmth. It covered me and I hung onto it. There was no thought of engaging with people and pets. It would be two years before I washed the blanket, folded it, and put it on the top shelf of the cupboard.
One of my worst fears is returning to that time. I have been active in what I refer to as the common reality. The common reality is where I find other people, the postal worker and the taxi driver. There are stores to shop at and groceries to collect.
Today, I take medication for depression and schizophrenia, and it helps. I believe medication is 40% of my recovery and the remaining 60% is what I do. Mental illness does not have a grip on me. The shackles have been unlocked. I wake each morning with the first thought being what will I do today. I am at the stern, my paddle dipping into silent water. I work out at the gym 6 days a week and work at the library part time. I read and write and bank. I have strong relationships. It is now a tradition for me to call everyone I love on Thanksgiving Day, thanking them for being in my life.
Mental illness no longer defines me. It is tucked into a corner of my mind that I leave untended. I am happy today. Life is decorated with silver stars. I enter the world daily missing out on nothing. My grandmother lived long enough to see me more than function in the common reality. I am grateful for this. Gratitude is attached to my invisible leash I hold firmly in my hand.