Wouldn’t it be great if all we needed was love?
The trouble is, it really isn’t enough is it? It will help you through the rough patches for sure but at the end of the day, there are a lot of times when love falls a bit short of the mark. People still get sick. People still die. People still hurt. And perhaps the worst of all - People still need money.
I am a mom. I have a beautiful little girl. I have a wonderful husband. Our household is filled with love and laughter. This is not enough. I have postnatal depression and our love, as strong as it is, cannot squash it.
Thanks to external circumstances, both of our paychecks are considerably smaller than they were just a couple years ago. Our life has become a delicate balance of having her in childcare long enough to make money but not so long that it costs us more to keep her there than we actually earn. Even with this balance, things are tight. At night, we retreat into our own tense silences, crunching and re-crunching numbers in our heads, searching for better solutions, or simply trying to shut out the worry and relax our exhausted minds.
It could get worse before it gets better and this scares the living crap out of me. I don’t have time to be depressed. I have a job to do. I have a child to look after. I have bills to pay. I have a husband to spend time with. I have friends I hardly ever see. I have family to stay in touch with. Hell, I’m finding it hard enough to just find time to write and I can do that at night once my little lady is in bed.
What damage has this illness already done? At what cost will therapy come? How much more of her young life will I miss? How much longer will I have to watch her through this horrid haze? How distant will my husband and I be from each other when I finally reach the light at the end of the tunnel? How many of my friends will want to spend time with me after I’ve hashed out the ugliness in my head? The therapy to which I’ve been referred is courtesy of the NHS so at least that is one less worry but the cost is so much bigger than money. The effects of this illness seem monumental and the road to recovery seems to be wrought with difficulty as well.
I feel much better, though a completely numb and extremely fragile, after receiving some ‘doctor ordered’ time off. It hasn’t stopped the worry or the questions about how I fix this or how to shoehorn recovery into our already precariously balanced mix of daily life. I wish I could concentrate on nothing but getting better but I suppose learning how to deal is all part and parcel to the process.
We don’t live in a bubble now, do we?