My Aunty has died.
For a moment all I could hear was white noise. And my world, which has been feeling more and more like an empty space, closing in on me these past months, has become even smaller.
I can’t breathe.
I’ve lived with depression all my life. But I’m used to being high functioning. That means I get things done even though I feel horrible, like a bottomless pit of nothingness. I write, I go out, I smile, I engage with people… and the bad thing about that is people tend to not understand. Because many think of depression as one walking around trailed by a rainy cloud. And I look fine on the outside.
But for the past several months I’ve not been able to do much. I’ve not written anything meaningful that I wanted to in over a year. Nothing feels meaningful.
My life feels meaningless. Night terrors are wrecking havoc on me, and it is often scary to close my eyes. I get to work, but just about.
It took someone else telling me that these are the typical signs of depression. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed. I’ve lived with it all my life. I blog about it. How could the black dog be staring me in the eyes and I not notice?
It’s because I’ve gone from high functioning to barely functioning.
I’m always surprised when depression hits. It strikes me in waves. Heavy, hard and vicious waves, but I ride them until they subside. Every time, I never seem to remember how I got past the last episode.
It is absurd. It feels absurd. And I know I’m being unkind to myself. But I don’t feel able to muster any kindness to myself right now.
Right now, my MO is just to get by. Basic human instincts. Survive.
I hate that word.
Because I want to live. With depression, I just keep forgetting how.
How do you manage?
Gentle hugs x
RIP my beautiful, kind hearted aunty. Until we meet again.