I've been in therapy quite a long time. I did take a break, as my first (and magnificent) therapist thought that I had done enough good work to let me go. Notice, the word "well" isn't in there. I never felt "well," just "better."
The therapist I've been working with the last few years has had me at, arguably, the deepest points of my depression, but her willingness to work with me has never flagged. And in the last month or so, we have dug down to some ugly bedrock issues.
I had a session today, in which we went down into the trench again, and I am emotionally, and, therefore, physically, spent. It really is easier to be sad --- to mope along and not put forth the true effort you have to to get over yourself. It's also less frightening. And embarrassing. And painful.
Today I realized how long I've been living my life on eggshells while, at the same time, trying to carry the expectations/fears/selfishness/anger/guilt/immaturity of a lot of people on my shoulders.
I am so tired.
Thankfully, there are words like sluice to bring me small bits of relief.