It had to happen, eventually. I’ve been coasting on a weird high for the past few weeks – months, possibly – where I’ve had energy, enthusiasm and motivation. I started a new job in a new location (same company), which gave me a sense of reinvigoration in my work life; I finished re-working and recording the final album for The Broken, and it came out sounding pretty awesome (if I do say so myself); I got some new reviews of both 22 Scars and The Broken which were positive. All of this combined has led me to feel in general quite positive about myself and about life, and I’ve been in a good headspace for far too long.

And today, cloudy as it’s been, felt good, too. I helped my wife record a ukulele cover of The Cure’s Boys Don’t Cry, I cooked dinner (a high-energy, high-effort task for me, if you didn’t know), went shopping … it all was going along so smoothly.

But then, as I’m sitting playing a mindless game on my iPad to relax after dinner, music playing on the HomePod, an old Marilyn Manson song comes on, and suddenly I’m transported to the year 2000, and the same crushing weight of depression that used to overwhelm my back then, and (obviously) still does from time to time to this day. So I put on the entirety of Mechanical Animals, and started writing this post.

You see, I knew it was coming. The depression, the crash, the fall into the abyss. I’d been happy for far too long, and it was long-overdue. In part, I think, it’s because I haven’t been consistent with my meds; if I had to average it out, I’d say I’ve been taking them maybe every other day, so I’m down to about a half dose overall. This isn’t good, because the meds are meant to stabilize me – not just make me feel better. Without them, I get racing highs, followed by crushing lows, and that’s … well, it’s exactly what’s happened.

The funny part is I had this thought, just yesterday, that maybe I was ready to lower the dosage of my meds; ready to talk to my psychiatrist and say hey – maybe I don’t need as much as I’ve been taking.

Obviously not.

I worry about the next few weeks, I really do. I wonder how I’ll cope with work, with home, with life in general. All of a sudden – literally, within the span of 30 minutes – nothing is interesting, worth doing, or feels motivational. I just … can’t. And as much as I know it’ll eventually pass, it doesn’t make it any easier to cope with.

All I want to do is collapse in bed and listen to depressing music, and that’s probably exactly what I’m going to do.

But first – to take my meds.

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