Wednesday, 17 February 2016

The pit

It's here again then.  The depression.  I want to post on Facebook  to say that I'm feeling wretched but I'm reading a book that just might help*.  There is no stigma, right?  But there is.  Friends will doubt my mind, work may be harder to retain.

My extended family, other than my sister who only recently found out, does not know I feel like this.





My partner is painfully aware, but can do nothing other than let me be.


My son asked me if I was okay yesterday.  I said no.  That was painful enough for him.  How can I tell him that yesterday I wanted to die?

I didn't die.  I sat tight.  I cried.  I waited for it to move on.  It did.  I felt it.  It's morbidly close though and keeps creeping back in.  I have no lightness of spirit.  I push myself to clean the house, to tidy myself.  To banish the thoughts that fester in the base of my brain, in the top of my back, in the pit of my stomach.

I didn't go out yesterday when I should have done.  I didn't open the curtains when I couldn't sleep this morning and I missed the sun rise.  Social media tells me it was a good one.

I must force myself to go out today and perhaps make contact with a couple of people.  But how do I? I am not happy and can't add anything to their lives at the moment.  I stay quiet.  They think I am unreliable.  I guess I am.

I must wipe away tears, get dressed, carry out tasks.  My partner returns, opens the door that I have closed.  Doesn't say anything - he's distracted by our son.  I ask him to close the door.  He was going to say something but won't now.  I have made it worse.  I am further alone.  I must not contact my friends for I have been proved to be a bad person.

Today will end in 16 hours.

--

My younger son comes in.  We cuddle.  We fall asleep.  Later I wake as if surfacing from a pit.  I cry silently. He rests his face on mine and says nothing.  The sadness hasn't gone but I know someone is there.

--

I get up, shower, dress, make tea, warm a nearly stale croissant in the microwave, spill my tea, mop up.  I post a photo on Instagram, switch on the PC, start a thing or two.  I finish writing this, I weep and wait for the feeling to move on again.



*Reasons to Stay Alive, by Mat Haig.  Depression from a man's point of view, which suits non girly me a whole lot better.  Half way through and many bookmarks have been placed.