The End

December

I had planned on asking for my wedding ring to be re-dipped and cleaned for Christmas. I don't like to admit that I'm superstitious but it was beginning to look a little dull and disheartened and my gut feeling was that it reflected how things were going. The last few years had been a hard slog to say the least. The recent move a set back instead of the step forward we had hoped. Life had been on hold for too long. We needed a fresh start. It was time to start moving again. 

I'm in the kitchen and the dreaded words are like a haze.

"I think we might need counselling."

I scoff " Counselling is a sign of last resort. Surely we should try first...Surely you think we can get past this." 

He sits on a nearby stool and stares at the floor.

My voice rises. Squeaks "Do you think we're at the last resort stage already? Do you think we need a...."

I stop myself.

He finishes.

"I don't love you anymore. I haven't for a long time."

It's over.

Two Steps Forward...One Leap Back

We moved. To a new city.
A new country.
My husband cut his hours. He started full-time university.
Little miss started a new nursery.
I increased my commute. By three hours a day.


Stress coming from all angles. But I was ready. Hell, this is the kind of thing I used to thrive on. Hand me a challenge, and I was in my element. Exploring the area museums and looking up library times. Finding new running routes. Navigating the area's public transportation.

I multitask with the best of them. I learn new cities quickly. Taking the train to work felt like coming home again. I could do this.

I made running part of my commute. I read books on the train. I budgeted on Saturdays. Slept in on Sundays. My husband did mornings. I did the evenings. It's been busy but we were adjusting.

And then I wasn't.

I've started running because I'm supposed to...not because I want to.
That's if I manage a run at all.

I worry that leaving before my daughter wakes up and getting home after her dinner will scar her for life.

I worry that I will miss the train.
That we will run out of money.
That my daughter will get sick.
That my husband will die.

Worry worry worry worry worry worry worry.

The anxiety is back.

I play the "is it normal" game.

Is it normal to wish for bedtime when it is only 10am?
Is it normal to want to go back to sleep but be too restless to stay in bed?
Is it normal to want to not want to eat?
To want to eat everything?
To want it all to stop?
To be scared of what would happen if it did?

The dark thoughts are returning.

I am a bad mother because I can't provide.
I am a bad mother because I spend all my time working to provide.
I am a bad mother because I didn't enjoy hide and seek today.
I am a bad mother because we played hide and seek instead of practising phonics.

The intrusive thoughts have creeped back in.

I wanted my last post to be one of hope. To show all of you who are battling that there is light at the end of the tunnel. To let all of you who love me know that I was okay. To tell all of you who have shied away that I was me again.

All of that is true. I did get better. But this illness has affected who I am. How I deal. I still try to tackle life head on but this illness doesn't always let me.

With depression comes self doubt. I wonder if I'm making it all up. Whether it's worse in my head than it really needs to be. Whether I just need to work a little harder to pull through.

It isn't that easy. With depression, it will never work that way.

I didn't want to call the doctor, afraid of taxing a system when I was so new to the area. I didn't want to admit I needed help because it felt like admitting defeat. I didn't want to waste their time if I was just having trouble acclimating to change.

These thoughts sound silly when I'm well.

Yet I listened and didn't call.

I met our health visitor on Friday.

It took her five minutes to see what I had been trying so hard to hide.

I saw the look in her eyes and it brought me back to those early days with miss. I cried and said I didn't want to be back at the beginning. That I'm scared that this isn't over.

"You aren't at the beginning. You just need some help getting over some big hurdles. We can give you that help. Let us."

I made the call. I see the doctor this week. My health visitor is visiting again as well.

The depression is trying to tell me I'm at the bottom of that deep dark hole again. I know I'm not.

It is dark but I will get out.

I am well, just not fully healed.

Two steps forward, one leap back....that's still progress.

An Open Message to PPD (AKA PND)

I know you’re still there, lurking in the shadows and waiting to pounce.

On bad days like today, you remind me of what I used to be and just how far I’ve have fallen. You tell me I am worthless, that I don’t deserve anything more, and that my child will never respect me for what I do.

You twist every one of my thoughts into a reason to hate myself. You turn them into reasons to not exist.

“You are a horrible, boring, pessimistic person with no passion, no creativity, and no love to give. No wonder no one wants to be around you. That’s why the phone never rings. That is why you spend your time alone.”

“You are broken.”

“You cannot be fixed.”

“You do not deserve to make decisions for yourself. You are not the protagonist in your own life story.  You do not matter.”

“It’s no wonder you’re back at the bottom. You were spineless enough to let them put you there. You are worthless enough so they’ll keep you there. They are laughing at you.”

Your words cut deep and leave scars so even on the good days I question my worth. I wonder how my husband can look at me with anything but distaste. I don’t attempt to reconnect with friends. I feel out of shape and ugly. I have withdrawn.

I tell myself that of course I am worth something and that I look fine. I remind myself that I haven’t withdrawn; I’m just fighting an illness. I remember that my versatility has helped me survive.

I take a break.

I breathe out the bad and breathe in the good.

I sit in a room and cry.

I sit in a different room and cry.

I sit in the dark and cry.

It has been long enough.

I am fighting hard to leave you behind.

You cannot possibly be strong enough to beat me down.

You want me to give up and to give in. You want me to withdraw from others so I sink deeper into the hole you have dug for me. You want me to believe all those terrible lies and twisted truths you fill my brain with. You thrive on it.

But I am fighting against you. I go out in public and remind myself that the anxiety is a mere whisper of what it used to be. I hold on to my emotions, remembering there was a time when I felt nothing. I repeat these victories over and over in my head as I take deep breaths and relax. 

I do not avoid you.

I write all of this down so I have to face what I’m feeling. I type these words, bleary through my tears.

I know I have come a long way. I am so close to the end that I can almost touch it, and I know that the last bit of the climb is always the toughest.

You sneer at me when I lose my footing and tumble backwards once again. I tell myself two steps forward and one step back is hard but it is still progress. I fight harder.

The dark times do not get easier but they do not last as long as they used to.

You won today.

But there’s always tomorrow.

And at some point I will kick your ass.