For those of you that live with depression and anxiety you know the fight to live some semblance of a normal life. How hard you fight to just… live. It is soul crushing exhausting. When each breath feel ragged and you can cry for hours with not even a small sense of relief. When the pain is so great and everything is so bleak and dark the only way out is dying. And again, I’m not going to. I can’t do that to the people that love me. It’s not the legacy I want to leave my kids. I hate this lot that I have been given. When I am not in a depressive episode I do so well. What happens to my brain between there and here? Is it the Butterfly Effect? Is it all the small insignificant changes that in of themselves go unnoticed? Or is it a straw that breaks the camels back? And does it really matter? Actually, it does matter. Because knowing what causes it might be able to ebb the oncoming wave. For a while anyway.
I just know that I am so very tired. Each muscle in my body pays the price. My nervous system is on high alert. The best description of how I feel for sometimes weeks at a time is that feeling when your child goes missing for just a moment and then she is found again hiding behind a rack of clothes. Except I don’t get that feeling of finding what is lost. It’s just this high alert. Heart pounding. A sense of doom. Fear. Panic rising and difficulty breathing. My hands and feet turn to ice. I get headaches and my entire body is tense for days or weeks at a time. As I’ve mentioned before, I know how this started. The first 6 years of my life were fight, flight or freeze. But I’m not angry at him anymore. That book of anger, hurt and resentment has been put on the shelf. Those feelings serve no purpose. But I am still left with a never ending sense of a foreboding. A foreboding that something bad is going to happen to my children, my family. A sense of foreboding that something is going to happen to all of you and the rest of the planet. And the utter powerlessness of it all. I know this is not normal. I know this because when I am well I see clearly. But right now it is muddled. It’s something I can’t explain. The best explanation is being in the darkest and stormiest of nights out in the ocean and your little raft is being tossed and turned and flipped around. And you know and remember sunny days when all is calm and beautiful. It doesn’t make that storm any easier.
And so, as I always do in times like these, I will take to my bed. I will go to sleep and get away from this monster for a time. My purpose for writing this is that maybe one person will read this. Today, tomorrow, next year and feel some sense of connectedness. That he or she is not alone. Because I know I’m not. I’m not alone.