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Most of the time, she hates herself. She has never hated herself before. Ever. She doesn’t know herself any more, and despises whatever it is that has been left after brokenness became the new normal.

She resents intrusion, but longs for connection. She doesn’t want to eat, but everyone else’s lives seem to revolve around meals. She doesn’t want to move, but life requires that she does.

She longs to crawl into a dark place and stay there until it’s all over.

She hurts. Knows that it’s normal to hurt. She cries. Knows that it’s normal to cry. She’s angry. Knows that it’s normal to be angry. She’s depressed. Knows that it’s normal to be depressed.

She feels like she can’t “do it.” Whatever “it” is at the moment. Yes, she knows that’s normal, too. She knows everything, after all. Ha!

Knowledge isn’t power in this case. It is a damnable monster. It digs in with its fact-shaped talons and taunts, “You just have to go through it.”

“You’re only normal-crazy.”

“This too, shall pass.”

“It won’t hurt like this forever.”

Those things may be true, but in this moment, they aren’t helpful to her crumpled soul.

She’s surrounded by love. Real love. The kind with hands and feet and shoulders to cry on. She appreciates it, but can’t show it the way she wants to.

She cannot keep up.

If she cries, she cannot stop. Not for a long time.

If she shares, it’s guaranteed someone will tell her: “Just praise the Lord. Just thank Him, and everything will be fine.”

No, everything will not be “fine.” Everything will suck for a long time. Why don’t they just weep with those who weep? Like Jesus did.

She’s tired. Always tired. She can’t breathe sometimes, the hurt is so heavy.

She wants to scream. And scream. And scream. Instead, she snaps at her children all day. She sees her husband hurting too, in his own way, and she can’t reach out. Her hands hang limp at her sides, powerless.

Mechanically, she goes about the bare minimum of tasks needed to keep everyone alive and (sort of) healthy.

There are moments of clarity and productiveness, but they are only moments.

She’s trying to take care of herself, but can’t even do that. She wants to write, but everything she wants to say is stuff nobody wants to hear. Pain is uncomfortable for everyone. She doesn’t have the gift of cloaking it in fiction or poetry to make it more … palatable?

Does she really have anything worth saying? She doubts it very much.

Everyone expects her to be a spiritual giant, but she’s not.

She’s just … nobody.

To be clear and honest, this post is what has been bottled up inside me for a few weeks. These are my raw emotions and thought patterns. They are what they are. They are not going away any time soon. I haven’t written much because of it. After doing quite a bit of research on medical sites, I finally realized that I am dealing with mild clinical depression. Yet another normal stage of grief. “Normal.” How I have come to hate that word lately.

Anyway–I want you to know that though I am raw and wounded and hurting, I’m putting the knowledge I have to good use, with the accountability and help of some very trusted friends and mentors, as well as my husband. I am taking some natural routes to helping my body stay chemically balanced, so I can process all of this in a healthy way.

I’m going to be blogging about depression in relation to grief for awhile. I don’t yet know what it will look like, but let’s just hope this particular post helped me enough that I can move on from here. I’ve decided that it’s better to be me, and let the chips fall where they may. I will not pretend. I’m sure the sun will come out again eventually. I’m just not going to fake it in the meantime.

Grace & Peace,


16 thoughts on “Nobody

  1. Tiff, I’m so glad you are talking about this; that is so important. Every day that you get out of bed is proof of how strong and brave you are. I know you don’t feel it. Clinical depression is an illness, and like any illness, you need to cut yourself slack and not add guilt on top of it because you can’t keep up with your usual routine. Be gentle with yourself, above all. Brighter days are ahead. I know you said you are going about this naturally, which is awesome, but please don’t hesitate to seek out proper medication if you start to feel ANY worse. It’s a short step from what you described to deciding to check out completely. Take it from someone who knows. ((((((((HUGS))))))))

    • Jenni – thank you for the encouragement. I have a couple of friends who will be keeping an eye on me, and if the natural approach isn’t working, I have zero qualms about seeking medical help. If I really need it, I will get it. Pronto. I’m just tired of being silent. If I can’t write what’s really going on, then I can’t write at all, apparently.

  2. Dearest Tiff! We were originally programed to live forever; death was plan B, not plan A. That is why we feel ripped in two when someone dies. When our souls are tied together with them, as should be, and the gaping hole left when they go on, is a totalling thing. So we feel totaled. I knew all this, but nevet could figure one thing you have helped me see:

    In the case of my parents, they both rejected me long before they died, so I did not feel what some feel, at their death. I am just now seeing this and thank you for opening my thoughts to why I did not cry: There were no ties. I wish there had been, but there were not. As my sister said at our dad’s funeral, “The daddy I knew died 15 years ago.” I knew exactly what she meant but never could articulate it, never could take it in.

    I shall go on, no longer fearing why-I-don’t-cry. If it’s any consolation at all, you have ministered a deep thing with this post. And I thank you for your openness and honesty. ❤ K

    • I don’t quite know what to say, Katherine. I just feel like everything has finally hit me for real, and it hurts so much more than I ever thought it could. I am so glad to know my words ministered to you in some way. God bless you for telling me so.

      • I haven’t, but I remember reading the book in 4th grade. Fortunately, my husband does the main meal almost everyday. It’s the endless snacks and smaller meals that get me. See? I’m such a weakling! 😛

      • I have found (when I went through deep loss) that it was the endless snacks that kept me alive, that pulled me where I thought I could never, ever have the strength to go. But if we lived near each other, I would take the snackers to a park for an afternoon, to give you time . . . xoxo

  3. Dearest Tiff,
    I won’t give advice: I haven’t experienced this desperate
    state of mind and emotion…..BUT I will stand before the
    Lord on your behalf.
    I love you, You are one of my heros!!!! Aunt Teresa

  4. You are braver than you know to be able to post your heart so honestly! You are amazing! I will cry with you.

  5. Pingback: A Good Day | The Faery Inn

  6. Crying with you. Praying for you. Grief just sucks, and takes so long to slog through. There will be a day when it’s easier, and a day farther on when it’s all joy. Until then, we just have to hold each other, in our hearts if not in our arms, and help each other hold on. Know that I am holding you in my heart and praying that you feel God sustaining you day by day, minute by minute.

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