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,