It’s been hard to blog lately – not just because the increased Quetiapine during a depressive episode has left me with brain fog and periodic feelings of being hit over the head with a shovel of sedation – but most of all because I feel stuck in this chapter of my life. I’m so done with it that I want to turn the page, except it doesn’t feel like a chapter at all. It feels like an entire book I’ve been reading on repeat. And I worry that other people wouldn’t want to read the same pages over and over again, even though I seem unable to leave them.

Yesterday I tried to turn the page anyway. I dyed my hair, partly because I wanted to feel more like myself again. And it worked – my hair is shiny, I look more like me – but the process exhausted me, and today I’m still recovering from something as simple as changing a colour. That alone felt like a small metaphor for where I am: wanting change, reaching for it, and finding even the smallest shifts take more out of me than they used to.

So today I tried something gentler. I played The Long Dark. And somewhere between climbing a mountain, feeling briefly capable, and then being blindsided and mauled by a bear that ate my expedition parka, the game accidentally mirrored exactly what my brain has been doing lately.

After the Anniversary

As I recently posted, I had a good day on my best friend’s anniversary. Mostly. It still felt raw, and I dealt with a burst of anger afterwards, but the day with my son was as perfect as perfect gets for us. Even with hip pain and admin anxiety in the background, we had our day. Later, I played The Long Dark, walking miles in-game, hunting a digital moose for his digital hide to make a moose backpack so I could carry very important survival objects like teddy bears and globes back to my base. Absurd, comforting, and strangely effective at bleeding off some of the anger.

The next day, though, everything came tumbling down. I felt WeeGee’s absence more than ever. It was an emotional whiplash I didn’t see coming. I’d even written in my last post that I thought my grief had changed – that I was finally getting somewhere – only to feel like I’d “set back” the very next day. In hindsight, this is simply what grief does. It waves. Some days I smile at memories. Other days her absence presents itself so starkly that it feels unbearable, and I can’t look away from how much I miss her.

What hurt on top of that was getting upset with myself. Feeling like I can’t process anything, that I take a few steps forward, even write about it to try to cement it, only to fall down again. And whenever I fell down in the past, the person I reached for to help pull me back up was her. So now falling hurts twice: first from the fall itself, and then from the moment I instinctively turn to someone who is no longer here. I still catch myself saying to the empty room, “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

And yet – despite being down on myself – I also recognise something important. This is the first anniversary where I am not actively running from these feelings. I’m not in relapse. I’m not in denial. I’m sitting in it. And maybe this, as painful as it is, is what healing actually looks like. Running is still tempting. Pretending it didn’t happen has been my default for most of my life. I’ve run from far smaller pains than this. Staying here, without numbing, without denying, without disappearing into an ED, is brutally hard.

I desperately want to turn the page on this chapter. To remember her the way she’d want to be remembered. But every time I try, it feels like I’m opening the same page again – the same words, the same hurt. Still, there is progress. I’m sitting here crying and not avoiding food. I did have a day on her anniversary where I thought of her fondly all day long. I suppose I wish I could keep only that part – and not the angry, aching part that follows.

There’s another plot device in this chapter I want to turn the page on too. And that’s my medication increase.

The World When I’m Sedated is Foggy

In the middle of all of this, I got so fed up with being sedated that I dyed my hair. Part of me thought it would fix everything. Shake out the fog. Bring me back to myself. And it did help – my hair is shiny, I look more like me – but the process exhausted me. That night, I realised the depressive episode underneath the sedation, on top of still grieving, was peeking through. The black hole forces were very much intact. I cried writing this part. I still am, if I’m honest. And I wondered why I even bothered with my hair at all. It suddenly felt pointless.

Today I tried something smaller. I went to Asda for food under a fog of exhaustion and low mood, came home with a black coffee and a sausage roll from Greggs, and played The Long Dark. Comfort food in both senses. I’ve learned through sheer trial and error that this chapter requires slowness, rest, and that Quetiapine absolutely demands fat. Despite NHS websites suggesting fruit and vegetables for medication cravings, I can confirm that 100g of kale does not touch a Quetiapine fat craving, Sharon. If I ate kale every time, my son might move out from the fibre consequences alone.

The plan was simple: cosy game, gentle day. Until the game decided to mirror reality a little too closely.

No One Warns You There’s A Bear at the Bottom of the Mountain

I’ve been trying to find the perfect custom settings in The Long Dark. Cougar off, because the constant screaming ruins the vibes. I spawned in Ash Canyon, headed to Timberwolf Mountain, and climbed to the Summit for the Long Dark lottery loot inside the crashed plane.

I dodged a bear on the lower slopes. I dispatched the two surprise wolves at the top. And the loot smiled on me – snow pants and an expedition parka. I spent days up there, campfire burning inside the wreckage, sewing and repairing, watching an aurora. Peaceful. Safe. Accomplished.

Then I started billy-goating down the mountain instead of using the ropes, encumbered, overconfident and technically cheating. Only one sprain and I used correct pathing even through heavy fog. Near the end, just above Crystal Lake, I heard it – the roar. A bear. Too close to escape. Too close to think. I lit a flare anyway. It only seemed to amuse him. He charged. Mauled. And in the process, completely destroyed my expedition parka.

I hobbled back to the cabin, the bear causing me to drop Stacey’s soda, ketchup chips, and my pride. When I was back in the safety of the cabin, it suddenly dawned on me: this is everything I’ve been experiencing lately. I finally feel like I’ve reached the top of a mountain, and then an unforeseen bear mauling makes it appear as if I’d never climbed the mountain at all. After all, what do I have to show for it? It isn’t an expedition parka or snow pants. Apart from my toolbox and many cans of peaches you can get from plenty of other places, there’s no evidence I was ever there at all. Only I know I was.

It’s exactly how grief feels, and how this medication increase feels. Some days I feel the meds starting to work, and I feel baffled by it, because I recognise myself from years ago and realise I thought the under-medicated, unwell version of me was just who I’d become. I feel more level, less agitated, less anxious – only to wake up the next day mentally unwell, depressed, and crying. Exactly like getting back to the cabin and realising the parka is gone. I climbed the mountain. But the bear of grief, or unstable medication during adjustment, makes it feel like I never did.

And it makes me think about how much of my life has been given over to very necessary medication changes. Mental health is never “just take meds and you’ll be better.” It’s “take these meds, feel horrendous for six to eight weeks, maybe feel somewhat better later, and live with side effects forever.” But you do it, because sometimes medication is what lets you recognise yourself again. When you’re mentally ill, you don’t know you’re ill. You think that’s just you.

When I felt that difference the other day – when I felt the me I hadn’t been for at least two years – I realised I had forgotten what that even felt like. I had become convinced the person I’d been in those years was simply who I was now. Medication helps me be more me. And you don’t really notice that until it stops working. Then you increase it. Then, briefly, you remember.

Being able to be in a game and only in the game. Not in my head. Not listening to racing anxious thoughts. Not feeling my heart race. Not being pulled out every few minutes by an intrusive thought. Not feeling like every single thing that happens is a threat to my entire existence.

When I’m ill, I always think, “This is how I am. This is how I’ve always been. This is who I’ll always be.” I didn’t even know I was unwell that whole time. I thought it was perimenopause. Or grief. And eventually I decided that was just me now. Grief adds another layer, because I still don’t know who I am after WeeGee. But I also know I was ill, and that’s probably why it was so impossible to find out. I was in survival mode for years.

I’m back there today. But that day where my meds worked – where I recognised myself again – proves things can shift once they settle.

I’ve mentioned Camus and Sisyphus a few times on my blog. I really like the absurd. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” But Camus didn’t tell me what to do when there’s a giant angry bear on the way back down, ready to eat my coat so all I can focus on is how cold I am. I guess the point is to push your rock up the hill anyway, and try not to live in fear that there will be a bear waiting when you start the descent.

Because the bear isn’t the point.
The point is that I made it to the summit and for a moment found peace there.

Days like the summit have happened – the day the meds felt like they were working, the day I carried loving thoughts and memories of my best friend through her anniversary. A bear might maul me on the way down. But the summit is still possible.

And for now, I’m holding onto that.

For the music today, the theme tune to the storymode of The Long Dark, and I’m forever thankful to this game for introducing me to First Aid Kit, I love them so much.