I have no reason to be sad. I have no reason to bite the inside of my cheek the whole time I trudge through the morning routine with the children, willing myself to hold back the tears until I can go curl up in a ball and the floor of the shower and let it all out. I have no reason to be unhappy, and, I'm NOT unhappy. I have four wonderful, beautiful children, and a kind, caring husband. Everything I could possibly want. And I am happy. I am so happy that it hurts.
Except for when I'm not. It just sneaks up out of nowhere, and I can't even breath. I am hostile, and bitter, and, above all, so sad that I can not breath. I take every little thing that happens personal. I sit for hours and think about how I am worthless. Less than perfect. How I am still too fat from having the last baby. How I can never get anything right. How I am failing my children, my husband, everything and everyone.
I know these things aren't true. They are the mean, twisted little lies the evil monster that is depression plants in my head to watch me wallow in self-loathing pity. Medication was a bust. I tried many kinds, and they all just turned me in to a shadow of my formal self. Therapy isn't really an option as the only counselor available in this area is a pompous ass, and spent the entire session telling me how worthless I am. So, I suck it up. I push through my day. I do my best to ignore the voice telling me how much I suck. I cry in the shower. I rant to my husband. I focus on the good and ignore the bad. I sleep late on days that I shouldn't. I spend a lot of time alone just trying to clear my mind.
And I write.
I have to write.
Poems and blogs and rants and raves and short stories and random, scribbled words or sentences that make no sense.
The only consistent release in the eleven years I have been battling depression, is the writing.
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