Owning anxiety and okay, I’m going to admit it, depression is a hard thing to do
but here I am owning it.
It’s easy to hide that you are feeling lousy in yourself
sad – okay way more than sad,
that you have plans to escape,
that you want to be anywhere else but here
because other people want you to be happy
filling the needs of others is something that I can do.
Ignoring my own self is easy.
What’s that saying?
Fake it until you make it,
except that it’s getting harder to pretend some days.
People want to smooth things over and pat them down -
make things neat
but life isn’t a clean sweep
and it’s anything but neat.
It’s hard to admit
and it seems it is equally hard to get off my backside and do something about it.
I know that this has been more than post hospital blues for a while now.
Admitting that I was not coping with Ivy’s anxiety and pain
was a cruel first step in the downturn of my own stability
but I admit it – I’m not coping.
I’m not sure what to do with it right now.
Cry a lot -
I know that much.
Sit a fair bit
and feel angry with the world at large.
I know that exercise
and finding an interest
and talking it through is all helpful.
I’ve been here before.
I know what this is
but the catch 22 of it
is that it all seems a bit hopeless, really -
a bit too much to be bothered with
and finding the effort to get out of bed has been hard some days
so finding a doctor and retelling my tale
and then suggesting that he or she prescribe me something when they don’t really know me
seems harder still.
It’s not so bad that I have no forward planning
or that I can no longer find the good in each day
It’s just that sometimes it’s more difficult and the thing I don’t like most about it
is that those feelings of hopelessness are there more often than they should be.
I joke around and tell everyone that this immune deficiency gig has only taken six years to make me crazy
and that when he put Ivy on anti-anxiety medication (which is really an anti-depressant in the adult world)
the paed should have done a two-for-one script.
In all honesty
I wish he had.
On Thursday, after surgery,
after an awful,vivid nightmare in which I couldn’t successfully revive Ivy with CPR or mouth to mouth resuscitation
as we raced to the hospital in a black monster truck -
(on a side note why is there always one weird thing in every nightmare?)
and woke in some strange hyper ventilatory state because I think I was actually doing the procedure in my sleep,
after being awake for the rest of the night unable to shake it
and worrying that it was a sign that something terrible was going to happen,
a fresh faced young social worker told me that, in her opinion, I was probably clinically depressed
and that I should do something about it.
Luckily, my sense of humour is still largely intact
because had I not have laughed at the peculiarity of that statement
I may have truly snapped and shown everyone what crazy really was.
As it stands today -
I feel okay
mostly because Ivy has been gifted with weekend leave from the hospital
and I have been enveloped in love and warmth and the beauty of everyday tasks like washing and cleaning.
Whatever this is,
when Ivy is unwell
and the family is falling apart (which, lets face, it is often at the moment)
I feel bad
and when things settle and we are away from the medical hoopla that complicates our lives
I can pull it together enough to function.
Still, I know that I can’t keep going like this
is functioning my way through life all I want to achieve.
I want to feel like living
and if I am going to be any good for my family at all I need to find a way to at least stabilise the sad.
Now, are there any doctors in the house?
Prozac is my drug of choice.
Just joking, my friends
but my goal is to do something about it this week -
I’m holding myself accountable…
as soon as I know the girl is okay
and before that social worker comes back again to impart more of her thoughts on this ‘unbalanced’ mind.