Self-care is a word we hear a lot in recent years. It’s become the ultimate marketing tool, as you can sell pretty much anything if you slap #selfcare in there. Some of us see self-care through a very limited lens, as healthy eating, meditation, and exercise. Others view self-care in those small moments, where we tidy up the kitchen before we go to bed (life-changing) or take the time to call a friend.
None of these are right or wrong because self-care is whatever you need it to be. At its core, it’s about taking care of your physical, mental, and emotional well-being. It’s recognising what you need—even when you don’t want it—and giving it to yourself anyway.
But when you live with chronic depression, self-care can look very different. Your life, in general, can look quite different, even if people don’t notice it from the outside. I’ve been struggling with depression for almost a decade and a half (what a dreary realisation) and I generally think I have it under control, thanks to a prescription of Lexapro and years of therapy. But it’s still there. Days occur when life feels heavier, when every task is a little bit harder, and when it’s harder to block out the unhelpful thoughts.
And on those days, self-care isn’t a luxury. It’s survival.
It’s taken me a while to work out what I need in these moments and a lot of wrong turns. Back in the day, I had high-functioning depression, and so I would push through these periods. I wouldn’t open up to people or admit I was struggling. I’d use negative coping mechanisms like alcohol, self-harm, or food restriction to keep myself going. I still feel ashamed admitting this. I exercised heavily in order to quiet my mind, and I focused on the picture I was portraying to everyone else.
Nowadays, things are very different, including how I take care of my mental health. I’ve stopped pushing myself to extremes and embraced a slow life. I’m not high-functioning but I’m functioning, and that’s enough for now. When darker days come, I treat myself with compassion while still giving myself the push I need. That’s what self-care is to me, recognising limits while still striving to try.
One of my non-negotiables is my skincare routine, and boy, is she lengthy. No matter how dreadful I’m feeling, I will do my skincare step by step. I find that it helps to set me up for the day or clear my mind before sleep. It feels like this stolen moment for me. I think there’s something to be said about the physical aspect of it too: the touch on my face and the rhythmic movements as I rub in various serums and creams, which I definitely paid too much for.
I’d love to say that I always force myself to wear a proper outfit and look ready for the day, but I am currently writing this in sweatpants and a jumper that reaches my knees, so I don’t want to lie. Perhaps this is an area to work on in the future.
But I do force myself to shower and change out my pyjamas. Even if my depression is so bad that I end up reading on the couch or watching a show (as a lifestyle and entertainment journalist, I can claim these count as work), I do this in different, comfortable clothes. I leave my bed, and I leave it made. There’s something about a messy bed that just breeds a messy mind.
My self-care in the midst of a depressive episode is pushing myself to clean my room, which is no easy feat. I’ll get lax and let it pile up while keeping the rest of my home spotless, as if that bedroom is a metaphor for my crowded mind. But the ultimate self-care comes in putting on my favourite song, and tidying up my room for the length of it. Just one song, and if I’m not finished, I’ll try again later. This makes everything far more manageable.
Once again, I wish I could lie and claim I drink homemade green smoothies and eat kale salads during this time. I don’t usually, even though I tend to eat quite healthy in good times. During these periods, I go for easy, convenient food because it’s better than skipping meals entirely. I’ll drag myself to the supermarket and get something fresh but already prepared. Or, if I’ve been smart, I’ve frozen leftovers ahead of time in preparation for these periods. At least then, I’m eating well and not sliding into the habit of skipping food, as I know where that leads.
I drink lots of tea, as it feels easier than reminding myself to drink water, and there’s the automatic timer of it cooling down. I push myself to go for a walk to a coffee shop and buy a nice overpriced latte. Is it a waste of money? I don’t think so, because it gets me out of the house and feels like a small treat.
Replying to messages has always felt difficult during these periods, and I used to guilt myself a lot for it. But now I’ll simply set aside ten minutes to reply to as many as possible and then leave it at that. This takes enough energy, and my friends know that I’ll get back to them when I can. This also ensures I’m not needlessly isolating myself, a tempting thought.
While socialising is definitely good for your mental health, it also requires a lot of energy that I just don’t have to give in these moments. If I can make bite-sized plans with someone who understands where I’m at and what I have to give, I’ll do that. Perhaps meeting for the cinema or for a coffee. Otherwise, I know it helps me to preserve my energy for a few days until I’m ready. Everything I have is going into functioning, and I just need sleep and rest. Managing work takes enough during these times.
It’s so easy to feel guilty during a depressive episode—like I should be doing more, like I’m falling behind. I’m not going for runs, I’m not drinking green smoothies, I’m not making it to dinner plans. But I’ve learned that sometimes, just surviving is enough. When your own mind is working against you, getting through the day is an achievement. I’ve had to practice giving myself the same kindness I’d offer a friend. Sometimes, self-care means taking a mental health day. Sometimes, it’s binging reality TV in bed with a pack of cookies. Sometimes, it’s reaching out to a friend, or realising it’s time to go back to therapy.
Self-care isn’t always face masks and yoga—it’s the small things, the bare-minimum wins, the choices that get you through the day. Yeah, maybe you ate an entire four-cheese oven pizza, but you also got out of bed, washed your face, and ate something. Maybe you only walked 2,000 steps, but that was twenty minutes of fresh air, plus a brief but valiant attempt at socialising with your barista—two whole sentences!
My self-care doesn’t have to look like yours. My bad day doesn’t have to look like yours. The only thing that matters is that you meet yourself where you’re at and give yourself the grace you’d give anyone else.
Welcome to Symptoms of Living! A place where I like to relieve myself of the barrage of thoughts and ideas filling my mind. Here I'll take a look at various topics, from books to BPD, series to self-harm, there's nothing that we can't, and shouldn't, talk about.
Having struggled with mental illness since the age of 15, one of the hardest parts was how alone I felt in it. While mental illness is beginning to be discussed more openly, and featured in the media, I still think there is room for improvement. So whether it is mental illness or merely mental health, a bad day or a bad year, let's make this a place to approach it and strip it back. Everyone has their own symptoms of living, and you certainly won't be the only one with it.
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