Some of my days are nights

On the rare Portland day like today, that is, one with sunlight, I walk at least as far as my bank and the grocery store to get some sunlight. Despite not awaking until noon most days, and spending a great deal of time indoors, I think the lack of sun may be triggering some delayed SAD in me. Or my meds need to be adjusted. Last week was a hard one for me. When you have successfully come out of or tamed depression and anxiety, the utter relief is also accompanied by dread; it will come back, and it may be worse than before.

Other factors in my life make me a more stable and happy person now than I was the last time I got sucked into that particular cave of my psyche, but it's still terrifying to me. Compounding it is my uncertainty about the cause; is it just my brain, or is it the existential crisis of any 31-year-old woman uncertain about what to do next? In other words, am I depressed because of a chemical imbalance, or am I depressed because I have things to be depressed about? The two who are close to me who I've spoken about this with say it doesn't matter, but I think it does.

So I am seeking a stripper-friendly, kind therapist and shrink in the area. I have no desire to ever get back to the worst I was. In my family history there are premature deaths from alcohol, suicide, and misadventure; there are also little emotional deaths no less permanent from stubbornness and pride. A great deal of my hope comes from seeing our condition improve with each generation and with my own small victories. It comes along with many wonderful positive traits, this particular struggle, and is a part of me as much as the color of my eyes or the tone of my skin. I only wish it were as easy to change, if only superficially.