Highs and Lows:

An Overthinker’s Guide to Mood Swings

Can I write an essay about depression which lets readers in, without pulling them down into some narcissistic quagmire? Can I build a depression essay that’s not a depressing essay?

For five years this challenge has alternately tugged at me, and shoved me away.

“A tender-hearted sadness pulls me through the day

But that's alright. My heart is okay”

Fortunate Ones (“The Bliss”) 

It was early morning in the fall of 2016 when those words leapt from the car radio straight into my heart. It was not a good morning, and, with a dull determination, I was slogging through the motions of getting myself from home to work. There had been a spell of sadness I couldn’t seem to pull myself out from. It just settled like a cloud, insulating me from what felt like too much. But the blessed “Bliss" penetrated that thick curtain of indifference to reach me.

***

Mood swings: I’ve been looking for a metaphor, a framework. Swinging comes to mind. As far back as I can remember, I’ve always loved to swing; relished the arching against the twin forces of arms tugging against rope as legs thrust ahead, pumping against gravity—or stasis.  

            The highs and lows are there, and distinct. Swinging, I drop gently into the fall, usually. But with moods, anticipation for the downward fall can feel more like dread. The upward arc usually manifests as a wash of oblivion, a not-quite-ready-to-believe-my-luck-ness.

            Swinging does capture the interplay of forces, all emanating from—but so much greater than—the self. But as a metaphor, it won’t quite encompass these undulating moods I ride out. Or that ride me out. There’s not the smoothness, and certainly not the control—or that sweet anticipation. And there’s no sensation in dejection to match the way the rush of air propels my hair around my face as I fall back toward the ground.

            As for moving in and out of my moods, that’s a continual shift, though of varying magnitude. I’m not sure if I ever go from dark to dark, or from light to light. Maybe it happens, but I can’t conceive of more than one dark spell at a time. That one spell will sometimes intensify, and may seem interminable, often impenetrable. Sometimes, there’ll be a small reprieve, just as clouds may break up long enough to glimpse the sunlight that’s not shining through—but still up there.

And the brighter times? I don’t dare think of them ending any more than I dare think of dark spells beading together, in a cluster of whatever gloomy unit one uses to measure depression.

***

I have one friend who’ll sometimes accuse me of acting manic. Which always makes me feel like smacking him upside the ear—not exactly a well-balanced reaction. The urge to strike out and that expression both rocket, unbidden, from some vague past. But then, my friend understands these things, and knows me—probably even knows he’s taking a risk. The admonition usually comes when I’m leaping from idea to idea, spinning threads of reason that trip me up, defying articulation. And usually, I suppose, I’m already hovering at the verge of anger.

            There are times when I do remind myself of my mother. And yes, there’s no denying it: I am her daughter. So maybe traces of her more volatile moods course through my veins. On the upside, unlike her, I don’t actually strike out, not physically anyway. In fact, I have trouble expressing anger (at least directly—and toward the actual source of the frustration), even when it might be justified. I tend to hold my anger close. Wrapped in layers of muddled thinking and cluttered feelings.  

            Does this supressed rage, this so-called manic way, relate to depression? Probably, yes. And I think I’m prone to anger when I’m feeling down. Or it may be the random spark of anger that nudges me down that path to desolation.  

***

Oddly, I’m not even sure I’d want the high and light days to be never-ending. Is that just me resisting optimism? Or not being able to trust the highest arc any more than I trust the deepest darkness? I’d rather live between the two—and usually, I think I do. Maybe it’s that experience of swinging, the gentle sweep from mood to mood, that I wish for myself; neither perpetually pumping to breathless highs, nor plunging to alarming lows. Then too, at some level I believe that we are what we are; that it's our gift and our curse to live as graciously as possible, as we are.

            These swings of mood are aspects of myself. And sure, I’ll admit to clinging to a fairly simplistic notion that some karma-like balancing of those highs and lows may forestall other scarier and more threatening afflictions. Maybe I earn intervals of peace and happiness by suffering in regular spells. (Or is that just the intractable residue of growing up Catholic that no span of atheism can surmount? Suffer for our own good? Well, maybe!)

            But I can’t deny a certain pride in the strength to combat depression, or just to bear it. Anyone who does, knows the fortitude it takes. Depression: the plank challenge of mental fitness! My personal bests were in the fraught years between 13 and 17, I’d guess.

***

It was in 2015, during the campus reading break, that our university hosted Victoria Maxwell, renowned Wellness Warrior and playwright. From the moment she took the stage, I remember feeling almost physically drawn to her, hooked by the wisdom and power of her words. What she said reverberated with what I knew, and then pushed beyond. I listened hard, struggled to take notes, and reeled away afterwards, staggered by what I usually would have avoided facing—directly, that is. Through her, I looked straight into the headlights of mental health, and mental fragility.

            My notes bring it all back: Maxwell mapping the journey toward recovery, where denial typically comes before healing. She suggests that we need to be strong to accept what frightens us. Quality of life and sense of self matter more, she tells us, than symptoms. We can delude ourselves into believing that what we experience is normal, usual. Depression, then, becomes us, defining us. We may also believe that we can spread the depression simply by our presence, a belief which then compels us to isolate ourselves with our misery. But it’s support, love, and acceptance that will minimize that misery, Maxwell insists, making us stronger and better. I believe her. But these truths are hard to hold to, in the midst of those shape-shifting moods which do, for all the world, come to feel normal.

            Depression is not, she reminds us, just needing to pull up your bootstraps. I know this, and yet I will tell myself to suck it up, to push past my own dark mood. In my heart, though, I know—all too well—that the only path past depression runs straight through it. Once depression descends, it will take its course.

            I’ve gotten better, though, at gearing up for that crossing, and better at what Maxwell calls judicial, strategic disclosure. When it seems useful—or sometimes, when it’s clear that it may make things easier for others to know—I try to share the state I’m in. This is something I’d never dream of doing when I was younger. But slowly, it becomes easier, and seems less selfish.

            Maxwell also speaks about inheritability. That notion must have distracted me. My notes include the phrase “cover the jar,” followed by a row of question marks. But then they veer away to list family members who’ve suffered from mental health issues—some more serious, more alarming. The list is impressive, and frightening to face. So much vulnerability. On its own, that reality has a sobering power. And yet I will not feel depressed when I weave through the crowds of colleagues to leave that presentation; sad, stunned, and agitated—but also tougher, empowered even.

            Years later, re-reading my notes, I remain grateful for that presentation. I only wish I knew why, when, and how to cover that jar.

             ***

In an effort to trace the background of my mood swings, I’ve searched through old journals, gathering glimpses and examples from across the years. (While journal, cousin to journey, denotes day, implying a daily act, mine are more accurately lunar, or seasonal.) The first thing I notice is that the sadness is more common than I’d like to think—or, possibly, that depression is more conducive to writing.

I had hoped to discern patterns, but also to find evidence that depression may be loosening its grip as I age. Though of questionable reliability, memory does provide a vivid recollection of particularly dark spells in my teenage years, likely enhanced by a conducive mix of adolescent hormones and family upheaval. Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence” would have provided the soundtrack. 

            My search may not have yielded any grand revelations, but some patterns in frequency and intensity of the dark spells do emerge: much like work, travel can accentuate those low points, and yet sometimes seems to dispel them; gardening and preparing food is a ready source of contentment; family and friends are ever important; music seems to matter. Trees and gratitude both seem to keep me aloft, and both gifts I enjoy regularly on my running trails. As if they might not be enough unto themselves, both trees and gratitude are said to be good for body and mind (and soul, too, likely, though no doubt the research is elusive, soul-wise).

            I’ve read that even seeing an image of trees has a discernible physiological impact on us, which really, shouldn’t surprise us. That the trees exude chemicals that react with and upon us may seem more remarkable, to those of us not used to thinking bio-chemically. Personally, I feel better in the bush. My mind tips inward; the thoughts flow freely. I feel blessedly small; inconsequential in a world positively buzzing, humming, thrumming with life. And I’m thankful for all of it. 

***

As for the effect of age, an entry from June of 2000 suggests that twenty intervening years may, in fact, have moderated the lowest moods, possibly diminishing the extremes.

June 7, 2000   Here I am with two days off, and the kids in school, and I write nothing… At least I'm gardening, and feeling driven to get the wild patches under control. It doesn't even matter that it’s unseasonably cold and rainy…

            I wonder if this darkness surrounding me is just normal. I have the nastiest feelings of envy, anger, irritation—flaring up so easily. Don't like it, but can't resist or repress it either….

            One foot in front of the other, and as much balance as I can maintain...  I do what feels strangely satisfying, but also dishonourable—skipping a turn helping with a graduation ceremony for an hour's sleep; avoiding students who need me too much; withholding my fullest participation at work; letting fly comments perhaps best swallowed. What am I risking here?

But the fall of 2016, when I fell for the Fortunate Ones, does stand out as a particularly low time. While I have no memory of writing this, rereading it, I do remember the struggle.

November 5, 2016       A sad day, sad week. I can’t pull myself out of despondency no matter what I try, and despite a St. John’s Wort cap each day for weeks now

            I hate this. No wonder everyone pulls back from me. I would too… I’d like to crawl into a hole when this hits, so I don’t have to work so hard, and uselessly, to keep it all inside, to pretend I’m the same as everyone—as cheerfully resilient. No matter what, no matter how I mentally prepare (and long hours of sleeplessness at least give me time to prepare—though of course, I get the irony of that). I fuck up every time I open my mouth. Even my face transmits dark signals, not friendly ones. If only I could fake better. It would be kinder and more productive to be able to pretend I was fine. Others don’t deserve the energy-sucking darkness I’m projecting.

            I try everything—exercise, sleep (an on-going effort), good books, music, distraction, getting small stuff I dread done. I’ve tried SO hard. Nothing’s helping. I’ll keep trying to hide this, and to keep space between me and the ones I suspect can see through the pretence.

            I decided in the night to quit gardening. Just one way to stop perpetually letting myself down. I’ll dial back to just raspberries, and the asparagus that’s surviving on its own. Enough for an easy distraction, but not to feel like such a failure. Better, I think, to pull back on my stupidly high expectations for doing well…

            We’re going to Victoria in five days. A get away. It could be lovely. I so hope I don’t wreck it. Please, don’t wreck it. Now I’m crying.

It’s clear that, despite Maxwell’s wise counsel, I was still floundering with the very idea of disclosure. But dated one month later, the following entry reveals a radical shift. Sitting at my place in the breakfast nook, I face a blank screen, with the three window-panes opening out onto sun-lit snow. Mood is on my mind.

Thursday, December 1, 2016 I’m lit by happiness, that old friend I’ve missed lately, through the fugue of depression, another old friend in a sense; not one that brings cheer, but still one whose embrace brings its own wash of familiarity.

            Today though, the blank screen is drawing words, trivial and disconnected, but tapping forth. My mood matches the bright day. I do love winter, though I’m prone to an indiscriminate affection when I’m up in this lighter, brighter range of mood.

            Mood. It seems so trivial, self-absorbed. Too many are in no position even to acknowledge it—Syrian refuges, barely clinging to survival; the unemployed and dispossessed… The irony is that my own mood keeps me aloft from more than a muted compassion for them. Images on the news which make me recoil when down will only make me wince, right now. What’s better? Surely the darker view is more authentic….

But am I any more effective in weighing in on the better side of humanity in that heavier state? I do feel as if I am weightier then, for what that’s worth, like a stone in the atmosphere—bringing a density, a self-contained intensity, into any situation…

            I’m preoccupied because I’ve struggled more with moods recently, I think. I also recognize that the idea of support is more tenable a notion in good spirits than bad. (Cruel irony, that.)

            One young colleague I’m fond of is also struggling. Seeing her recently was sobering. And humbling. I’ve known dark days, but don’t think I’ve ever felt as shattered as she looks. Though my stupid levity kept me from falling into her state, I shed tears when we parted. …Helping her would feel good, but I’m in no position to, except by watching for small ways to make things simpler, more possible, as she rebounds. (Please, let her rebound.)  

The several entries from 2017 swing so wildly that they’re dizzying to read. Their frequency probably results from an article I read, prompted by a Ted Talk on self-awareness touting the wisdom of exploring the what, rather than why. In short, contemplating what happens, and not why it’s happening, is more likely to lead to positive outcomes. Though ignoring the cause of things seems problematic, the idea of it resonated with another article, on the power of capturing emotion in writing—a how-to article, stumbled upon at work in the same week. It seems that reflecting on the state we’re in helps us process, and to work toward solutions or resolution, or maybe simply acceptance. I can’t say I attended well to either article, or that they stayed with me. But I did try, for months, to do a better job of capturing my moods. Who knows? Maybe it helped.

May 1, 2017; from Coimbra, Portugal          

On Saturday morning, our departure day, I got lost on my run. On my own trails, that I’ve run over and over for years! What’s wrong with me?

At the Calgary airport I felt overcome by sleepiness, after a week of not sleeping well. I’m still feeling that powerful urge to sleep, though of course, not in the dark unfamiliarity of the long nights. I am NOT a traveller. I despair of the crowds, all so at ease. Can’t appreciate or care about the architecture or narrow cobbled streets and alleys. All I notice is the garbage in every crevice; that, and the smells—cigarettes and perfumes. I don’t feel even slightly compatible with the human race today. I’m sad, at the edge of tears, chilled, fatigued, and feel alone in this black hole that threatens to swallow even the happiness of others.

May 4, 2017    In the past two dark, difficult, days, it occurs to me that I spend so much of my life trying to fit in, but feeling alien…  I don’t deal well with disorientation and sense it at every dimension—geographical, cultural, linguistic… Social cuing is already and always challenge enough for me.

June 18, 2017 It’s my birthday and I’m alone on a train bound for Halifax. It was an indulgence, this sleeping car, this long leisurely 2-day train ride between two conferences, taking me from Guelph to Toronto, Montreal, and on to the coast of Nova Scotia….

We keep stopping, which may just be part of train travel, I’m not sure…The sun’s dropping and the skies are clouded but lovely, with wind stirring the leaves along the side of the tracks. I’m feeling good—and that’s no small thing. It’s taken more effort lately, but in a sense, that’s a blessing, too. It affirms my own responsibility to pay attention and not become complacent. Maybe just because I’m happy, I feel like I’ve nailed it for a change, even a bit smug. It’s been a rollercoaster, lately—or maybe for a whole year, or two, or… (Should I take stock?).

            Did it help that I kept walking or running, being outside, trying to get 6 hours of sleep, eating well (if erratically), being with people I care about, trying to express myself, at least sometimes? I’m lucky to have friends who seem to take turns looking out for me—but not so much that I feel like a burden. The kids and Mont are also bracing me. It will feel good to pivot back to strength, and take my turn looking after those I care about. Maybe I’m on that upswing!... Back to the light…

Entries continued to track a long upswing, through my return home, and a continued preoccupation with exploring the lovely sensation of buoyancy, knowing that the returning murkiness of depression was inevitable.

July 13, 2017; holidays and happy days

Nearing the end of the 2nd of 4 weeks of vacation, I’m feeling happy, and engaged…

Maybe I’ll explore that: the contentment. I’m not always sure it comes from anything concrete. In the same way that good things happen while I’m depressed, dark or ominous things happen while I’m happy. Trump, for example, is out there causing misery and shame day after day. Closer to home, the fires rage, and rain is nowhere in the forecast…

            Even closer to home, it’s been a week of contact with all three kids…

And of tuning in to relationships that matter most... I feel as if the orbits are full and in balance. That can seem scary, since I’m also perfectly aware of the potential for imbalance and loss. … And yet, happiness prevails!

            Funny, how writing about happiness can seem less consequential than capturing depression—as if happiness were trivial, unworthy by comparison.

But I know different: It’s evasive, and worth tending too. Worth holding up to the light.

July 14, 2017 Gardening… It’s been such a pleasure, so satisfying, these past couple weeks. I was astonished to remember how last November I’d decided to quit. Really quit, even that half-assed style of the past couple years: that random scattering of seeds; the surprising discovery of a small island of spinach, a spear of asparagus asserting itself among the chickweed and dandelions. Slipshod seems too generous a description; but quitting had never entered my mind…

            I felt great today, with sweat running down my face. It must have been a dark spell for me to think that giving up the challenge would somehow be better for me.

By the next year, it seems I’d let go of that resolve to keep track of what was happening. There are only seven journal entries for 2018, most focusing on sleeplessness and strange dreams. Yet compared to the year before, things seemed to be looking up, mood-wise. (Or I just didn’t write about the lows.)  

            One interesting truth that’s come from exploring these journals is how I have at least a basic notion of depression when I’m happy, can recall its hulking profile. But in the grip of depression, I have trouble remembering—even believing in—happiness. All the most basic metaphors seem apt: When I’m down, I can’t see the light. And when I’m up, I can’t fathom the depths of emotion.

            And yet, surely there’s value in dwelling on the lows when things are better. I can gauge strategies, and find small ways to brace myself.  That blunder of almost letting go of my vegetable garden, for example, taught me a lesson I hold myself to now: not making decisions when I’m in the grip of depression. I’ve learned that I can do a decent job of busy work, undertaking those dreaded and mind-numbing tasks that seem to accumulate. But I postpone decisions that can wait, even those that may seem inconsequential at the time.

***

In those years from 2016 to 2018, I set out to learn more about how depression might link to other vulnerabilities and proclivities of mine. Reading through what I found piques my interest, but also makes it hard not see myself as cursed with a perfect mix of weaknesses. A dash of insomnia, a modicum of migraine, and a healthy dose of introversion, a sprinkling of obsessive drive: perhaps the perfect recipe, ideal for nurturing moodiness. It’s easy to imagine why I’ve been avoiding this folder of notes for so long.

            But today I’m determined, in relatively good spirits, and ready to take on the information. Starting with the word itself: well, there’s no light in depression, whether linked to landform, or mood, or marketplace. The Victorians considered it a woman’s condition, calling it Vapours, and treating it as a form of hysteria (according to Robert Burton’s 1621 “Anatomy of Melancholy”).

            Memory failure (an infuriating and depressing phenomenon unto itself) is often cited as a symptom of depression. I am all too aware that I forget more than I used to, and that this can be, in itself, disheartening. But it surprises me to learn that forgetting might be a symptom, rather than a cause, of depression.

***

Hundreds of links surface when I searched links between depression and insomnia, including dozens of CBC broadcasts. Sources support both sides: depression causing insomnia; insomnia causing depression; and even this: “Losing sleep might help you lose your depression,” a 2017 episode of CBC’s Quirks + Quarks. In it, host Bob MacDonald (always a favourite of mine) explores the intersections between insomnia and depression. I wonder for a moment if hearing that broadcast might have triggered this whole project of mine (but won’t, of course, remember if that was the case).

            Apparently, it’s been discovered that when depressed, a night of sleep deprivation can break the cycle, providing—for reasons beyond understanding—nearly instant relief. In fact, I experienced this myself, not long ago, when a night of sleeplessness followed a stretch of dark days. I gave in, moving to the living room to read for the four hours until dawn. In the morning, to my surprise, I felt refreshed and happy. This left me wondering if maybe I was feeling low because I’d been sleeping more regularly lately—or if I simply missed reading for long stretches.

            But I learn now that while the relief prompted by a disrupted sleep can be instantaneous and profound, it’s generally temporary. We will relapse into depression again, and even more surely if we’re sleep deprived, it seems. MacDonald questions his guest (researcher Robert Stickgold), about the link between insomnia and memory loss, and how they connect with depression. “It turns out,” according to Stickgold, “that if you're sleep deprived you forget about half of the positive information” you’ve taken in. “But you don't forget the negative information and the result is, that …what you remember… is only the negative stuff. And not as much of the good stuff.” Go figure. Memory is filtering out the positive, as if to bolster the darker mood.     

            Undoubtedly, it seems that sleep deprivation and depression are interconnected, and that the link is complex. But which causes which? And does a predisposition to one condemn one to the other? Those questions are subject to on-going study. It does seem that either condition will make the other worse. One expert, Nada Stotland, claims that if we’re depressed, we’re often awake in the night. She captures it perfectly: “It’s extremely lonely, it’s dark, you’re aware every moment that the world around you is sleeping, every concern you have is magnified.”

***

As for connections between depression and migraine, it’s rather a relief to find less material. And yet it’s a well-established fact that they’re linked—or that the presence of one increases the risk of the other. They may be caused by similar brain chemicals. To me it makes perfect sense that the physical discomforts and challenges of a migraine would cause one to feel depressed. How could it not? Less intuitive, but also logical, would be for the change in mood to somehow trigger a migraine. I’m not sure I even want to know if this is true. (The unfairness of that could, on its own, depress a person.)

            And though I’d never thought about it before my research, I can’t deny the logic of how depression connects to introversion. But I also know that my mother, from whom I most likely inherited my depression, was as extraverted as I am introverted. Recent studies indicate that we introverts do have a higher probability of suffering from depression symptoms than those more extraverted. And yet, there’s plenty to suggest that being reserved and socially awkward and drawn to spending time alone could all pave the way for darker or lower moods. Never mind that other common characteristic of being inward in our thinking. In Stephan Hawking’s words, “Quiet people have the loudest minds.” It seems that we think too much, and don’t share enough. Some researchers point to that tendency to be self-critical, to worry overmuch about what others think of us. The combination of over-thinking and seclusion may well lead to depression. It certainly seems a poor way to fight it off.

            One article I’d saved elaborates on “aversion to social engagement” and how introverts become anxious and behave awkwardly, later, in their minds replaying “those awkward moments” until “the irritation and restlessness” yields to “deep-seated anxiety” which in turn can cause panic attacks and eventually, depression. For some reason, this report makes me furious. I want to shout at someone (more in line with my mother), though I know I won’t (being, okay, the introvert).

            While this almost joyfully acerbic elaboration of the traits of introversion leaves me annoyed, I do appreciate the point that introverts tend to be daydreamers and to have active imaginations. I can’t deny that daydreaming, while it seems benign, may just contribute to depression—and promote sleeplessness, too. 

***

One journal entry from 2013, prompted by an exercise led by a fellow writer at a workshop at Banff, does a pretty fine job of verifying the very article that so infuriated me. I write of “the weight of companionship” and of “Friday dinner, migraine, missing home.” Today I remember the whole Banff experience fondly, and yet…

            I am alone in discomfort and worry.

            They are engaged, happy in conversation.

They eat, listen, shout, laugh, argue, assert, question, dispute

with pleasure, with joy even.

Fullness weighs me down. Pulls at me

Music slides to noise, pushing me toward distress,

sparking that throb behind my right eye.

Never the buoyant one, me, I’m the sinking one. Weighted, freighted. 

Keep it to myself.  Set a boundary between my distress and their camaraderie,

Moving away from their comfortable zone. 

Past some boundary, a barrier dividing myself from them. 

They notice, and are momentarily distracted, distraught.

My separation concerns them…

I seek quiet, seek comfort, tea, silence, darkness, warmth… 

to feel one with my aching head, at ease with my own distress.

Moving with it, through the hours, toward sleep, I strive for balance on my side of the pole. 

Worrying for them as they worry for me, we pull toward each other even as I pull down.

Discord is vitality, though.

Maybe, by tugging them toward the other pole, I keep us all pitching forward…

***

Last fall we were driving home from a visit with our daughter and her family on Vancouver Island. Leaving one of our grown kids only to return to an empty house is always a bit sobering, and the joyful chaos of grandchildren only exacerbates that disparity. Anticipating that, I take care to have uplifting music, maybe a story or too, on the ready to keep our spirits up.

            At some point the clear blue skies emerged above the stunning vistas as we traveled east-bound along the Coquihalla Highway, nearly bringing me to tears with their exquisite beauty. In the normal, muted moods of an ordinary day, they may never have had the same power. I scribbled a note to myself about how I’d regret having failed to notice “the amazing convergence of emerging from a dark mood just as the light lifts above the terrain we travel through.”

            In another entry from this very month in 2021, are a few sentences wondering why—even as fires burn behind our home and we’re on evacuation alert, with smoke filling the air and boxes of photos and bags of clothes on the ready—my own low mood has lifted. Sometimes the mystery is as much about why the mood lightens, despite so many things going awry.

***

I’m grateful to Patricia Hampl and her interview by Heidi McKinley, for sharing the words of Saul Bellow on the topic of depression.

            “One should cook and eat one’s misery,” advises Bellow. “Chain it like a dog. Harness it like Niagara Falls to generate light and supply voltage for electric chairs.” I wouldn’t want to chain either my depression or our dog. I won’t even think about electric chairs. But the idea of holding on, of owning and harnessing these moods: that has the ring of wisdom.

            A blessing of age is both an easier acceptance of who I am—the whole mix of highs and lows, lightness and darkness, weakness and strengths—and less stamina to aim for better. When I drop into those inevitable patches of fog and that “tender-hearted sadness” pulls me down, I try to follow Maxwell’s advice, taking a breath and sharing the state I’m in with those I trust. I turn to those simple things which tend to bring happiness: going for a run, or a swim; making and eating a whole popperful of popcorn (even writing that makes me smile); picking peas or green beans, connecting with a friend I’ve been missing; or simply brewing myself a cup of green tea.

            And I hold to the knowledge that I’ll rise back—that, in the words of the Fortunate Ones, I can believe in the bliss, because “my heart’s okay. “

Sources cited:

·       migraine.com/living-with-migraine/migraine-and-depression/

·       www.learning-mind.com/depression-symptoms-introverts/

·       creativenonfiction.org/writing/daydream-believer/

·       www.ted.com/talks/tasha_eurich_increase_your_self_awareness_with_one_simple_fix/transcript

·       www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2007/06/070622090727 Putting Feelings Into Words Produces Therapeutic Effects In The Brain

·       www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jPjmmWnWvw&ab_channel=FortunateOnes