I’m in the midst of a debilitating depressive exacerbation.

I’ve never had this happen on Thanksgiving. November is a loaded month for me, but I was doing great. Just last week I was enjoying New York City for the first time.

I came home, exhausted, on Sunday.

By Monday, the cloak of depressed had fallen heavily on my shoulders.

I then had unexpected bad news, and it sunk me even lower.

By Wednesday, I was on the edge of the abyss. I contacted my psychiatrist. He told me to do what I needed to do to take care of myself. I talked to my husband. I prayed I would feel better today.

I didn’t.

So I came into a busy day of cooking and I was running on empty.

Between yesterday and today at 1pm, I had cooked a feast for eleven people.

Make that ten. Because as soon as I got done cooking, I retired to bed. Where I remain.

I’m thankful my family and friends came and broke bread, and I’m thankful for the home and groceries to do it.

I’m thankful for the southern cooking my mom taught me, so that I could get through the big meal prep quickly and deliciously.

I’m thankful I had the intestinal fortitude to do what I needed to do to avoid a toxic situation that would have further damaged me while I’m vulnerable.

I hate depression, and I hate that it’s back with a vengeance.

But I’m thankful that this, too, will pass.

Hopefully, by then, I’ll feel like eating.

I hear I made quite a feast.