It’s okay to talk about depression. It can save a life.

A friend who struggles with depression and anxiety texted me one day and asked what I did on the bad days when I couldn’t get out of bed.

It’s a good question. I stared at her text and collected my thoughts. I certainly had those days, but as I formulated an answer, tears stung my eyes.

I can’t remember the last time I couldn’t get out of bed. Months? Maybe years? I can’t even remember a day when I woke up slow, even though my son’s internal wake-up time is 5 a.m.

Just a few years ago, I pretended to have a migraine so I could stay in bed. I made excuse after excuse to my husband why I couldn’t get up. I slept until mid-morning or mid-afternoon and then worried about picking up the kids. I felt the depression pressing on my limbs, but I didn’t notice that it had become a ball and chain. I was stuck and hopeless, unable to move forward.

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