It’s that feeling of inevitability. It’s that certainty that I’ve been here before. It’s the certain knowledge that I will almost certainly be here again.
It’s that “almost” that is the only real unknown.
The optimistic among you might recognise the outside possibility that maybe, just maybe, this will be my last ever bout; that somehow my internal brain chemistry will sort itself out and that I will be “cured”.
I’m prepared to admit that the possibility exists; history and experience tells me that this is almost certainly not the likely outcome.
There are no good things about a depressive episode. There is one thing that if familiar in its uncertainty. Every episode, every plunge into the depths of darkness is accompanied by that nagging doubt; is this the one? Is this the episode that I don’t pull through? Is this the one where it finally becomes too much, I lose the will to keep fighting, and give up?
I never know. I tell myself that that won’t happen; that I will not surrender, but do I really know this?
The truth is, no.. All I know is that I have a 100% survival rate to date. That, I suppose, is all that really counts.