Depression Part 1

I woke up two hours ago.  At 4 am on the nose.  I couldn't fall asleep last night even though I was completely and utterly exhausted.   

I'm battling severe Depression.  Not a word I like to use.  Not something I like to admit.

In pubic, I think I hold it together pretty well.  Most people would describe me as friendly and well-put together.  Recently, I was mistaken for a High School student.  Granted, the woman was old enough to be my great-grandmother... it is also possible that she was blind in one eye and couldn't see out the other... but still... at almost 37 years old, I'll take it.   

I used to be a cheerleader (Did I just admit that?) and in many ways I still am.  Usually, I love to encourage others... I'm quick to compliment and try to overlook faults in others.  I do my best to smoothly navigate through rough conversations with "sandpaper people" as I call them.  I hug.

Lately?  I'm likely to call people names.  I'm tempted to foster grudges.  Is it just me or does everyone have some sort of personality disorder? I don't have a lot of patience and virtue feels like a vapor I can't seem to latch on to.

I'm weary.  I want to sleep and cry and I lie in bed wondering if swallowing a handful of pills would mean that I wouldn't have to do the hardest thing in the world:  swing my legs over the side of the bed and begin again.

Last week,  I looked at the knife sitting on the counter, and I thought about using it to slice my wrists.  Which is not something I'd ever do.  Too messy and painful.  The mere fact that I even had the thought, startled me.

When Brittany shaved her head?  I understood her.  She was oppressed.  She was in a rage.  Some people pull their hair out... some people cut... some people hit, berate, and accuse others.  Pain has to go somewhere.  When the photos and videos of Brit were circulating through the media, I was going through my own personal hell.  I was being torn apart by sexual abuse.  Absolutely shredded.  It's a wonder I didn't shave my own head.

I had a six month old baby and three other children.  Two of whom were victims and needed me to be their pillar.

So I tried to be everything to everyone.  I nursed my baby through sleepless nights.  I did my best to listen to my talkative, active son who cried alligator tears when I told him daddy couldn't live with us for a while.  I raced around trying to make everything all-better for my daughters.  I ran our fishing business, oversaw a construction project that was built from the ground up while my husband was away.... I ran kids to school, grocery shopped, shoveled the snow that delayed the construction project.  Spoke to attorneys, counselors and advocated for myself, my husband and my kids.  I moved from Alaska to Washington and back again. 

Until my husband was out of prison, I kept it together, day by day.  I counted the hours until he came home.  Naively,  I thought everything would be better after May 17th.  And some things are better.  Much, much better.  And some things are not.

I didn't realize that after being in survival mode, I would crash.   I see myself  like a wine glass slipping out of a wet hand... suspended... breath-held... praying to God everything would turn out OK... that the glass would merely bounce, not shatter.

If fantasizing about violence with kitchen knives, craving a bottle of pills and justifying BrittanySpears' hairdo is any indicator... I've hit the floor. With force. 

I sat in my closet, wrapped my arms around myself,  and admitted it.