The eyes in the copy of myself in the mirror looked back at me. They had an emptiness to them, like a glass that’s run out of water and ice.They were still eyes. They still worked. But they had nothing to do.
I took a deep breath, just like I’d learned to do in all the years of therapy. One deep breath, hold it a moment, slowly let it out. Repeat if needed. It didn’t fill the empty eyes, but it did slow me down, slow my pulse rate down, and made me pause for a moment.
I stared into those empty eyes in the mirror, and I knew it was that time of year for me. When the days of summer are almost gone, and the sun sets a minute earlier every night. That time when I feel like the ground I walked on every day, dropped away, and kept falling, and I don’t know where it is, other than down there, somewhere.
That seasonal affective disorder feature of my life, that happened every year. When August neared its end, and the momentum of the summer kept me moving long after the ground disappeared. Until I finally ran out of steam, and gravity caught up with me.
And I fell off a cliff into my depression.
“It’s a long way down.” I looked at my eyes in the mirror. “Why does it always have to hurt to hit the ground?”
It’s Week 530 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the stories in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who show up every week.