A Life Profound

I hate not knowing who I am.  That is the best way I know to describe it.  Suddenly, I don’t know how to act, what to say, what is appropriate or inappropriate.  It is like someone else is in my body, clumsily stumbling through my life.  Though it is me, at the same time, I am looking in, agonizing over each conversation, criticizing every word and action.

I hate the anger that accompanies depression.  When I cannot bear the anger that I have for myself any longer, it begins to spurt out at those around me.  Chris usually bears the brunt of my impatience, my frustration but the children are aware, very aware.  Then the guilt sets in.

I hate the guilt, the paralyzing guilt that holds me hostage in my room because I just don’t want to inflict myself on anyone that I love. But then there is guilt that I am not out there eating dinner with them, listening to the stories of their day, reading to them. This, I know is the spiral that will lead me to self loathing, a state of mind that I resist as much as I can.

I hate that I cannot seem to carry on as normal all the time and I miss out on life.  This time, I am trying so hard to go on, to be where I need to be, to do what I am sure I want to do, to try to provide as much normalcy as possible for my children.  But I am exhausted already.

I hate the exhaustion, the to the bone fatigue that just doesn’t go away.  It doesn’t matter how long I sleep, I could still sleep more.  I ache to core of every joint.

I hate the moment that comes when it seems those those around me have grown weary of dealing with me.  I know it is too much; it is too much for me.  This weight is not my choice and the flippancy does not help me deal with it any better.  Those attitudes just scream more condemnation at me.

I hate not knowing what I want.  On one hand, I do not want to be pitied or coddled, yet on the other hand, I want deep compassion and understanding.  But I cannot ask for it, I don’t feel that I deserve it and having to ask in the midst of the pain, is just more than I can do. I don’t like having to remind anyone of what is going on in my life.  It sounds like an excuse and I do want to be treated normally but sometimes people forget and expect more of me than I am able to give.

I hate the scattered thoughts.  They are all there in my head, pieces of a grand idea, floating in my head like bubbles and as I try to grasp them, they pop and disappear.

I hate the glimmers that make me hope that the end is near when realisitically, I know it’s not.  I’d rather have the defining line, here today and gone tomorrow.  But such is not the nature of depresssion.  Just like it crept in, it will leave with the same muffled steps.

Sometime ago, in a mode of dumping some stuff on my mind, I wrote that I was deep in the privilege of depression.  I was struggling again with the on again, off again depression that is part of my life.  I realized long ago that I will not be cured of depression but that it is something that will continue to visit me.  Just acknowledging that makes me able to embrace the episodes and ride the wave until it passes because this too will pass, only to come again, but at least it will pass.  Just knowing that makes it easier to get through.

Why did I write that depression is a privilege?  Because I wonder if it is.  My mother used to say that she did not have time to be depressed.  I recognize that at that time, she probably may have never dealt with depression.  I don’t really know that she ever has.  But her statement certainly illustrates a certain  mentality and I definitely questioned if this was something I could just decide not to be.  Just choose to not be depressed.

But I didn’t ask for it, I don’t think I choose it.  It shows up unannounced and intrudes into my life for a season while I do my best to go on.

But I wonder if I had to struggle for my existence, would there be time for depression?  If I had to work from the moment I opened my eyes to find work, food, shelter and assure the safety of my family and myself, would there be room for depression.  These are the things that make me wonder if depression is reserved for those blessed to live in an abundant society.

All the while, the answer to the question doesn’t matter.  It is what it is.  Today I find myself on the edge again.  No reason, no explanation.  But here I am and here it is … once again.