Sometimes I feel so alone.
In my illness, my life and my family.
I could be surrounded by people (like I am now) and still feel completely and utterly alone.
Yes, I have friends. I have support of my husband. But when my husband is mad about something that is out of my control at the moment (but essentially my doing) I feel like I’m an island in the middle of the south Pacific. And with him working nights and sleeping most of my waking hours, it is like an acute pain.
I’m with Sunshine a lot. I love being a mom, I love reading to her, doing things with her. But she is six and doesn’t understand why Mommy is sad. And I can’t (and probably never will) confide in her what goes on in my head. No child should have to bear the burdens of their parents. I know this well in my own relationship with my mother.
My friends. Well, most of them are completely healthy. They have no clue what it is like in my body. Why I have to do the things that I do. Why I can’t eat, drink or do certain things. And they constantly try to fix everything. I understand the gesture. I do it myself often enough when friends confide in me. But sometimes I know what I’m going to do, how I’m going to remedy something. I just need to confide in someone. To get these feelings out before they consume me.
My parents? Forget about it. I’m lazy. I fuck up constantly. I’m a disappointment. I’m a failure as a mother. They sometimes directly say this, but most of the time it is subtle actions and snide remarks. Or my favorite, the silent treatment.
So right now I feel completely, utterly useless. Alone. And the emotional pain is too hard to bear sometimes.
I am seeing my therapist for the first time in over a year in the coming week. I now have health insurance.
I know its depression. But I’m trying to fight it. To rise above it. To go on and do things when I would much rather stay in bed all day and disappear into a book.
I’ll cry about it in the bathroom soon. Then I’ll suck it up and go swimming with Sunshine. I have a child to raise.