Fighting My Way Out of The Fug

Even a trip to Paris didn't cure me.

If you have been reading me for a while (starting with the Vinegar & Vanilla days…) you know I am not shy about sharing about my tendency towards depression. I’ve been fully aware of it since high school, and have ridden the wave since then on a regular basis.

Sometimes I was depressed because I was surrounded assholes (or married to one) and sometimes it just comes for seemingly random reasons. Normally I just ride it out. I know it is a cycle and I will give into it for a few days - let it seep into my bones and pull me into the couch or the bed, or a Netflix binge marathon.

We are old friends, the Fug and me.

I know what to do, after the initial dark days - move more, write in my journal, make sure I am eating well, do something I love, limit my social media intake, reach out to friends.

But recently none of that was working.

I blame Tru**. (I can’t even bring myself to type his whole name, lest it soil my post.)

Real talk though…this round of the fug has been brutal. It has left me bone tired and the tools I usually use to get up and get out of it have not been working. For weeks. Many weeks. It does pretty much coincide with inauguration, so I have a fair amount of company. There are many of us - you, out there - who have shared with me the same feeling of heaviness, malaise, overwhelm, extreme fatigue.

But couple that with my routine depression?

It’s like a very heavy, unwanted weighted blanket that I can’t get out from under.

I’m over here, digging through my Depression Toolbox, to see what I haven’t tried - and figured I would make my way into the health insurance system and try to get a new therapist. I once had one I LOVED, but I graduated for a while and she moved away. Since then I have tried two others - via video - and neither of them really did it for me. A good therapist is hard to find.

But this time around? Nightmare. The whole experience was a joke from the beginning. And good luck trying to meet with someone in person. Not gonna happen. Sorry, call me Old Skool, but I am over glitchy video calls and don’t want to be led by the nose by a screen anymore than I already am. Face to face time, please. Human fucking interaction is what I want.

Like I said, I have been to therapy before - I have my Master’s in Counseling, so it started in grad school. I’ve been to couples therapy with both marriages, and have seen probably half a dozen different therapists in my life - one long term (I miss you, Anita!) So I can tell when this is going to be a functioning relationship, and I know my way around a fruitful therapist/client relationship.

But from the beginning I felt I was doomed, or at least in for an uphill climb. From the snarky intake therapist I had to talk to who “matched” me with a therapist (pretty sure it was whomever was next in the queue who had an opening, and I’m guessing who they matched me with has a wide open calendar!), to the therapist who maybe spoke for 10 minutes in the two full sessions I had with her, it was clear this was not it.

Honestly, I think the woman was typing my responses into google and then reading to me what came up. It was awful.

I literally got more help from Chat GPT than the two hours I spent on the phone with this lady. Ugh.

So I went to Paris.

Ha! Just kidding. I mean, I did go to Paris, but not because of the Fug. I went because I had planned the trip last year. A one week solo trip to the City of Light. Ahh, yes, the cure for what ails you! Croissants, café life, wandering, the Eiffel Tower, museums, art - lots and lots and lots of art, no time pressure, no one to tend to (or talk to, except yourself!)

It was really lovely.

I moved more (18,000 steps one day thanks to getting lost), slept a ton, wrote in my journal each day, felt inspired by the art in the museums, but also by people watching and the diversity of city life. I felt things.

I felt pleasure in biting into a buttery, flaky croissant. I felt joy in watching little kids run through the park. I felt pride in being able to hold a rudimentary conversation in French. I felt inspired by the art in the museums. I felt nostalgic in the disco exhibition. I felt frustrated when I knew I was so close to my hotel, but couldn’t find it and I had to pee and my feet hurt. I felt accomplished when I made it to the hotel. I felt lustful watching beautiful men on the street. I felt alive when the birds began to sing in the early morning.

I felt things.

And in feeling emotions I found hope. I found a little bit of relief from the heaviness I had been feeling for so many weeks.

Paris didn’t cure me.

Trust. ‘Cause when I got home and woke up after sleeping for 12 hours I felt just like the me that had left a week before. Tired. Uninspired. Apathetic.

But the next day I felt like I had a little more fight in me. I got up when I first woke up - instead of going back to sleep. I drank my coffee outside with my feet in the cold, wet grass. I forced myself to go for a walk. I ate some protein. I looked through my photos from the trip. I pulled the plastic tarp off the desk in my art studio. I picked up a paintbrush and told myself I would just paint one section on the painting that has been untouched for over a year.

Step by step. Piece by piece, I am fighting my way out of the Fug. Once again.