I’ve been carrying an increasingly heavy feeling. I thought I’d dealt with it, but its back. I feel myself sinking into sadness about my disability and chronic pain. It distracts me from being present. One might call it hopelessness, fear, despair, desperation. I’m not quite sure what to call it other than depression. I decided during my podcast episode today that it’s time to go back to my psychiatrist. The decision to get help is always the hardest, and it doesn’t seem to get easier whenever I have to do it. I hesitate because once I make the appointment, I feel obligated to keep going. That’s the point, right? 
I used to ignore my emotions by drowning myself in work. I lived to work. It was my purpose. It’s not far off to say my obsession with work matched others’ obsession with social media. I was checking my emails and Teams messages continuously. Work was really an escape; I see in retrospect. If I focused on being the best director who does the most and bleeds corporate colors, then I didn’t have to look at my relationships with friends, family, and myself.
There is gratitude to be found in medical retirement depending on how willing I am to address what’s going on between my ears. 
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