Yesterday my daughters tried to poison me.
I refused to have a Mother’s Day. But Elise and Carolina made dinner. I was up all night.
I’m in this weird place.
I don’t like it.
Here’s what I know about depression.
A refresher course.
Depression doesn’t care if you make goals.
It doesn’t care if you are behind and are struggling to catch up.
It doesn’t care who you hurt or how you hurt.
Depression doesn’t give a damn about the people in your life or in your heart or in your head.
You feel sorry because you got the stupid phone and don’t want to use it.
You feel sorry for everything that’s going on that you don’t know how to fix.
You feel sorry about the choices other people are making. Or that your baby is growing up. Or that all the work you do seems to go unnoticed.
It’s an ugly pity party but you can’t help it.
You know you sound like a whiny bird but you don’t care and when you try to feel anything other than no hope, there’s just a big empty place where your heart should be.
I think one of the worst parts of when I feel like this, is that it feels like even God does not care.
Don’t worry. I sound dramatic.
I’ll be fine. Certainly I’ve been here before.
It’s not pleasant. But don’t writers live in this awful hole?
Getting out is just taking a lot longer than it feels like it usually does.
Maybe my girls were just trying to put me out of my misery.