When you’re depressed, the differences between a good week and a bad week are numerous.
On a good week I can leave the house, do everything I need to, remember appointments, talk to people and bounce my way through the world. If I’m not up to bouncing, Tigger like, then I’ll amble, bimble even, along, fairly cheery and chirpy and I will meet the goals I set myself.
On a bad week I can’t do any of those things. The very thought of leaving the house makes me anxious; my heart hammers, my hands shake, my thoughts race and I get short of breath. I feel tremendous guilt for every perceived failing. I drag my heels, my head down and I forget everything. I can’t talk to people on the phone, all I want to do is sleep. I curl up and I hide away. I feel guilty because I can’t walk the children in to school. I feel guilty because I’m failing at this life thing. I’m a rubbish mum, a rubbish person. I’m a crappy girlfriend and a stupid head and I’m worthless and irrelevant and stupid and horrible and nasty and mean and small and no good.
Ive just gone through two weeks of this. The first was good, a great week for me. Productive and busy and fun. I had a blast; we all did. We did things and we got out and lots of things were managed. I watched what I ate, I exercised. It was good.
Then I had a bad week. I could barely get out of bed. I no longer cared what I ate, what I looked like, I had to have company while I bathed. I need looking after and sheltering, even though I made good healthy homemade dinners for the children I still felt like I was failing them food wise. I worried and I cried and I slept. I slept and slept and slept and it’s amazing what a good sleep can do for your mental health. I was fragile as a snowdrop in a winter storm. Battered and bruised and all in my own head.
The attacks in Paris happened. I cried. Friday evening was awful. I felt and still feel. My heart breaks, it broke, it is broken, it hurts. For everyone, everywhere.
I’m coming out of it now. I still feel vulnerable. But I’m getting better. Mr Pond and I went out for dinner and some shopping on Monday and I was okay holding his hand – until he had to go to the men’s room in the restaurant and then it started. Anxious, sweaty palms, heart racing, trembling fear. We went to a local supermarket that I like and walked around slowly until it passed. Then we went home. I survived. This week is going slowly. But it’s going and I can remember bits of it which is a definite improvement. I crafted bits yesterday and I didn’t sleep during the day. Come 4pm I was exhausted and fell asleep while the children had dinner but no matter. I bathed, I washed my hair. I made an effort and it felt good. Today I’m taking as it comes. Sleeping is my one plan.