This past year has seen me in the lowest of emotional states. I was diagnosed with depression in October, 2013, but looking back over the years, I am able to pinpoint those times when my coping abilities were tragically lacking, and my bed was my refuge from the savage thoughts crushing my brain and chocking the breath from my throat.
Somehow, some way, through the guidance and help of the team of doctors monitoring me psychologically and medically, the stabbing in my chest is subsiding, and rather than sob my way through the day, occasional moments of distress, discomfort, and generalized anxiety are accompanied by tears that are not smearing the mascara down to my chin, rather dripping one by one down my cheek. This is progress.
The depression may be lifting.
I'm hopeful.
Although clinging to my blankets and burrowing my face into the pillow under which I keep handfuls of used and unused tissues is still the safest time of my day; moments when I'm living life; watching the world move around me; marvelling at those who live it so successfully, appreciatively, and beautifully, I am now actually feeling flutters of unease, yes, definitely unease, in the pit of my stomach. But also hope.
I still can't leave the house to join a yoga class or even take my dog for a leisurely walk. The thought of activities which require emotions I consider foreign and frightening, such as pleasure and contentment still cause me to shake my head violently back and forth, when suggested by friends and family.
And yet these past few days I've given thought to redecorating my bedroom. I've wandered through stores imagining colourful curtain fabrics fluttering in the wind of my open window. I've scrolled through websites in search of ideas. The thought of repainting an old dresser to look shiny and new; to buy the materials required for the refurbishing; to see it to completion; to admire it, and know that I had a reprieve from the gut-wrenching sadness long enough to find satisfaction in an activity which was meaningful to me; which made me feel something other than loneliness and worthlessness; which made me feel emotions that didn't drive me to my knees in pain -- these days have felt like freedom.
"This must be what normal people feel like?" I keep wondering.
Because I don't know. Thinking back to the birth of my children; to milestones; to celebrations; to graduations, I only recall the need for those moments to be over; so that I may return to my solitude where no smiles are necessary and nobody is expecting me to experience an emotion I don't even understand. I feel successful when I complete my day. That is what living with depression has been: a completion of tasks. Sometimes my magnificent social mask has fooled those around me into believing that I have life under control. I got this.
But the second I am not under the watchful eyes of those who don't allow me to be weak; who expect me to perform as a mother, wife, daughter, and friend should perform, I sit at the bottom of the shower, and as the water hides my cries of pain, I wish for death.
And yet these past few days, I sense release. I'm excited to pick out paint swatches and matching curtains. This must be what normal people feel like.
Right?
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