Well, it would seem as though the haze of “all day sickness” is finally beginning to clear and I’m left weakened by the physical and emotional toll of being paralyzed with nausea for 2 solid months. *blarg* It’s time to get “back to life, back to reality.” But I don’t wanna go back. It would seem that during my sick period, I had a little too much thinking time. I begun to re-run the last year through my head as if it were on replay. “2012: The Year That Sucked.” Don’t get me wrong, the entire year wasn’t gloom and doom, but for the most part,… it felt like it.
The reality of last year is that I lost or nearly lost some of the things most dear to me. I nearly lost my Papaw, I lost my great-grandad, lost trust in several people close to me, lost my best friend, lost my sanity and I thought I’d nearly lost my marriage (thankfully, Tim doesn’t take such a drastic view of things as I do.) By the end of September, I felt as though the rug of stability in my life had been completely and viciously yanked out from under me. I trusted no one, not even myself. I wasn’t myself anymore. I became introverted, quiet and somber. Thankfully, my husband told me I needed help. Not just a “let’s pray and trust that it will get better” help. Professional help. Has your significant other ever told you, you need therapy? It’s a humbling experience, let me tell you. But slowly, I soaked up the pieces of myself with a sponge and wrung them back into the bucket of my soul. And then eventually, things started to get better. Then 2013 rolled around and things began to look brighter. We bought a beautiful home, got pregnant and moved out of a city I’d grown to loathe. I denied the logic and told myself I was “better”. The only problem? You don’t ever recover from major depression. You learn to cope with it. I began denying it, and that was worse. With the morning sickness and the constant wearing down by my poor kids who got stir-crazy because I was too sick to go anywhere, I began to slide back down that slippery slope that always begins with non-productivity and feeling sorry for myself. I was getting short-tempered again, introverted more than usual, and sullen. I hated myself for being this way and I hated myself for hating myself. Tim told me I need to go back and finish my therapy. I knew that. But I couldn’t/can’t bring myself to make the phone call. I forget whenever I have the time to call, and whenever I remember, it’s a bad time to pick up the phone. But yet I can’t seem to be motivated to set a reminder on my phone, or write it down and stick it to the fridge. Why do I seem to not want to recover? I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s because I’m afraid. Like deathly afraid. Afraid to be responsible for my feelings and the actions that follow. Afraid to have to deal with reality instead of plugging my ears and closing my eyes pretending it doesn’t really exist. Afraid to hear yet again about all the things that are “wrong” with me that I’ve got to deal with. It’s a big chunk to bite off and chew. But for the sake of my husband and kids, I have to do it. Will I pick up the phone tomorrow? I don’t know. I hope that writing this will give me some level of accountability so that I’ll actually do it. I want to get better, I do. But then again, I’m tired and working on myself requires more effort and energy than I feel like I have to give. But really, there is no choice here, my kids need me and my husband needs me. They need me sane, happy and healthy. And maybe I need me that way too.
Till Next Time,