January 4th, 2012


(no subject)

Every time I start to think that things can't get worse for myself, they do. I'm in a bad place, and it only seems to keep getting worse. I'm starting to become afraid for myself.

I read a post written by a blogger who I've followed for a few months, because I thought she was hilarious. It turns out, she's been battling depression and anxiety for a long time, too, and she's just now starting to come out of a bad hole. Reading her description of what the fight is like hit home, because I know what she means and I know what the fight is like. The trouble is, I'm not sure I can see my way out of this hole.

One of the worst parts about this is that I don't feel like I can talk about it. Who's going to give a damn about the problems someone like me might have? I have a roof over my head, food to eat, a husband who loves me, and work I enjoy. So what if I constantly wonder if everyone around me would be better off if I weren't around? So what if I've written the notes in my head, or done the math to figure out exactly how much of what kind of pill to take? It's not like my like if hard by any stretch of the imagination. I have it easy, and I always have. I have no right to be upset, or sad, or depressed. I should just get over it, once and for all, and either never talk about it again or just do it and be done with it. All I'm doing is dragging everyone else around me down with talk like this.

All that? That's my family you just read. I'm still not convinced my mother believes depression is an actual medical disorder - I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm just faking it for attention, and so was relieved when I stopped talking about it in college. Of course, in college was when things started really going to hell, but hey, at least I wasn't telling her how sad I was, right? That's not entirely fair to Mom. She knew something was wrong, she just didn't know how to fix it, and I think that has to be one of the scariest parts about being a parent - not being able to fix everything.

Being a parent - there's another thing. Eric and I have talked about having a kid for going on two years now. We haven't, yet, obviously, nor are we any closer than we were two years ago, and the idea fills me with both anticipation and mortal dread. If I can't keep myself in working order, how in the hell am I going to bring someone else into the world and be the one (or one of the ones, rather) to teach them how to keep themselves going? I would be the absolute worst person in the world to bring someone else up.

For any of you reading this whose first reaction is to call me and try to talk to me about all of this - don't. I still can't talk all of this out yet, and even knowing that you've read this, I will still probably tell you that everything's fine, and that I was just being melodramatic. And, hell, I probably am. I've always been oversensitive and over-dramatic - anyone who's known me for more than about a year could tell you that. I'm not going to do anything tonight. I promise - I'm not going to do anything tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or any time in the near future, to be honest - just because I've thought about it, doesn't mean I'm going to do it. I'm just...I'm starting to get worried that I'm thinking about it at all.

I will be here tomorrow. I promise.