This is what I look like today:
It’s not quite right, but it’s almost there. Part despairing, but mainly frustrated.(And I hope I don’t have such a childish pout) I have all these things that I want to do, and things that I have to do and the ONE thing I was going to spend FIVE hours doing?
Zilch. No hours at all.
Anyone feel like you’re a waste of space on the planet? I really do believe it sometimes, even though I’m simultaneously aware that it’s my probably mentally screwed up brain coming up with it. My parents lives would be so much freer. I’m not saying that they wouldn’t be traumatised and everything for the rest of their lives, but they could do SO MUCH MORE.
Mr Mediator would be able to travel. It’s what’s in his blood, what he’s wanted to do his whole life. He spent his whole childhood travelling and it runs in his veins. The happiest I have EVER seen him is when he’s in Asia (he was brought up in Hong Kong). The first time I saw him cry was getting off the train at Heathrow after our one visit to HK. He has a skipper qualification and wants to sail round Britain. He wants to walk Lands End to John o ‘ Groats. He wants to swim and cycle and run and be elsewhere and not be in a position where he can come home at the drop of a hat in a ‘crisis.’
Dr Feline is slightly different. She likes a home life. But she likes seeing friends and that has always to be worked out so I have to tail along too. And she loves spending hours in the garden when I just want to sleep, and I’m not allowed alone in the house, so… I wouldn’t mind sleeping outside but she says it will give me pressure sores. How can you get pressure sores from half an hour lying down? She could work harder (not necessarily a good thing, but she wants to do it), she could go back to running a children’s group.
I KNOW IT WOULD BE SELFISH.
I’m not dim. I just think that in the midst of the trauma there would be life. And hope. At the moment we’re at a stand still: figuratively doing doggy paddle in a stagnant pond. It’s disgusting, we all hate it, and want out.
It’s me that’s gotta do it.
And I don’t want to, or can’t depending which way you look at it. I still can’t quite believe that this is an illness.
Sorry for being morbid. The black dog of depression has been biting me damn hard since January and I’m getting tired to keep on fighting.
Everyone else – keep going! Ignore me – life is the way to go 🙂 Up and up and up!