Depression has been hanging around for a while now. Months, really. Most of that time has been here at home with Mom, and a little before that too. There was a period when I honestly felt like smoking myself to death. That’s the dark side of it.
People often think depression just means sadness. In real life, it looks more like gravity. Heavy gravity. Everything slows down. Getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain wearing ankle weights.
Today I didn’t get up until 2:30 in the afternoon.
Whiskey Kitty knew something wasn’t right. Cats have emotional radar. She made a few gentle attempts to wake me, nothing dramatic. No biting. No wild play attacks. Just quiet concern. She settled in close beside me, close enough that I could hear her purring, like a tiny engine running on hope. She also wanted breakfast, of course. Even emotional support animals have priorities.
Last night I pushed myself to paint. When you haven’t worked in watercolor for a while, that first session can feel rusty. The voice shows up: This isn’t very good. You’ve lost it.
But when I stepped back and looked at the work, I actually liked it. And that’s what counts. Not perfection. Not applause. Just that moment when the artist inside you nods and says, Yes, that’s honest.
I also made a change in direction.
Instead of the Winter Olympics series, I’m moving into something closer to my heart: portraits of outsider artists, many of whom lived with mental illness. Colorful. Bold. Beautiful. Lives lived outside the lines, but full of vision. It’s going to be a powerful show.
There’s something fitting about painting people who created through their struggles while I work through my own.
And here’s the important part.
Despite the depression…
Despite the long hours in bed…
Despite the heaviness…
I didn’t smoke.
I didn’t even think about it much.
That’s the quiet victory no one sees. Recovery isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it looks like doing nothing destructive while you slowly gather the strength to do something creative.
Whiskey helps. Art helps. The small routines. The small reasons to get up. The small moments of color in a gray day.
Depression may slow me down, but it didn’t take the cigarettes back. And it didn’t take the paintbrush away either.
Progress isn’t always loud.
Sometimes progress is a purring cat, a finished painting, and one more day without lighting up.
Once again, I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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