When depression hits, my already-low executive function falls off a cliff. A fog descends and I can’t string my thoughts together. I struggle to string words together. There’s a specific metaphor hovering at the edge of my mind for the exact feeling of trying to thread a sentence together but, ironically, I can’t find the words. I imagine a wall of amber goop – honey, maybe, or syrup – and trying to drag the words from behind the wall. The wall drags at them and I can’t them out.
I’m… not sure… why it’s an amber wall of honey or syrup. Mind images choose themselves.
Things are better when I’m at work. There’s schedule, there’s routine. I know where I am in the day, and I can find my way. I seem to be doing ok at work. It’s outside of work that I’m struggling, struggling to eat, to remember to shower.
It’s like being lost in a city.
Work is a city I know well. There are plenty of familiar landmarks, roads I travel often, signs to guide my way. Even if I get a little lost in the individual back alleys, I can see landmarks on the horizon, I can orientate myself, figure out how far I am from my destination.
Home, somehow, is a city I don’t know. I can maybe see one or two landmarks about me, but I don’t know how they relate to each other, or to my location. The sign names mean nothing to me.
And so often lately I can’t find my way.