Staying well is incredibly difficult. My mood over each month is a rollercoaster of dark and light and undulating shades of grey. I’m never sure what is menstrual, what is mood and what is just me. And I definitely don’t know if it’s genuine depression or if any of it is justified.
Recently I have crashed. And today, I have epically burnt. My routine appointment with the epilepsy nurse resulted in spontaneous tears (she was lovely) and now I can’t shake them. I’ve burst my banks because of everything and nothing all at once. Twelve hours on my eyes are still leaking.
This last year has been crap, for reasons too many people know far too much about and understand far too little. Thirty six years of chronic oversharing isn’t teaching me to become any more private. And it really, really should.
In this last year, I have thought about death too many times. I have wished for it and been terrified of it all at once. I’m not suicidal. My fear of leaving my babies cancels all that out. The only death I really want is the heavy ache in my chest to pass away. And it will. I know. I have been here so many times. Some days this feeling is stronger than others. The bleak despair and the endless, pointless tears. And other days I laugh and am carefree.
This too shall pass. Today, it’s just harder than usual.