Just Between Us

Though I have struggled with depression throughout my life, suicide has never been an option that I considered. The thought of living overruled the possibility of death as if it were a decision not made by me, but by a higher court. I’m quite sure that the thought was there, only buried and subdued. It probably danced across my brain as a fleeting option that I dismissed as I would junk mail. I faintly remember hearing conversations of people who have taken their own lives and agreed on the selfishness of that person. I passed down judgement so flippantly; that is until my most recent cycle of depression.

Such a sneaky, quiet beast depression can be. It attaches to me so gradually that I do not even notice the parasite that I am hosting. I cannot point to a day on the calendar that it began, nor can I recall an event that pushed me over the proverbial ledge. It is a creeping impedance of doom and empty space; completely void of reason and logic. Really, what right do I have to be unhappy? I can rattle off my blessings without effort as they are indeed abundant. This adds to the guilt that I feel when I hit that brick wall. My mind converts to autopilot and I perform the necessary things that keep me on the north side of insanity.

In writing this, I am admitting to my trade secrets; the things that I realize that I am doing when I am cycling. That is not to say that I understand my patterns or have the energy to change them as they are occurring. I am definitely not asking for intervention. I have certainly surpassed amateur status by now. But, I am a realist and I see the signs.

I have always enjoyed time to myself; the relief of not having to converse with anyone or give explanations for my words and actions. The exhaustion of communication is often what will validate my absence and helps me to feel justified in pulling away from the world. I isolate myself physically as well as emotionally, becoming conveniently unavailable. I choose to den up in my bedroom with the curtains drawn and the doors closed. I watch episodes of The Office that I have seen hundreds of times before; soaking in the deadpan humor that I prefer and letting the comforting predictability numb my brain.

I stop eating. For me and my food history, this is a big one. My appetite does not disappear, but I feel unworthy of nourishment. I once went nine days without even a taste of anything but water and wine. Nobody noticed, possibly no one cared. I mean, it’s not as if I appear malnourished with my soft belly and thick thighs. It has nothing to do with weight loss. It is refusing myself the most basic of needs. Self-loathing so intense that I do not deserve to eat. This is a really hard one to admit as I know that it will draw more attention to my habits than I am comfortable with. It is what it is and I continually remind myself that I only have control over myself, not others. While this is awkward and unpleasant, it is therapeutic for me to throw it all out there.

And really, for the first time, came the thoughts of ending it all. It was subtle. Calculations of how much my life is monetarily worth. I weighed my value according to what could be gained in the event of my death. I thought of Andy and how he could remarry and have what I felt he deserved; a normal wife who would be honest with him. I wished for him a more beautiful soul with a conventional brain. In my typical fashion, I was deciding what was best for someone else.

My children have, without knowing it, saved my life many times. It is looking at them that I see pure love. It is the kind of love that is completely unmerited and yet the most powerful force that I’ve known. They make me feel like a pivotal piece of life’s puzzle. Without me, they do not have a mother, a home base. They would be robbed of me; the advice that I can hand out, the stories that I tell, the food that I cook, the hugs that I give, the unconditional love that comes from someone who has been there every step. And though my worth cannot be completely measured in my kids, it has sustained me when I see only black. If I know nothing else, I know that the three souls that I brought into this world are heroes in disguise who, until now, have not known their weight in my world.

In this moment I am brave. I am strong. I can tell my story in a small town. I can gather my people and say that I am enough. There are those who will read this and not recognize the depth, but rather see a topic for gossip. That’s okay. I tell my story for not only myself but in hopes of shining a light in the direction of a kindred soul, because right now I can do this. Tomorrow might be different.