The last few days have been very difficult. I have felt a recurrence of symptoms of my depression and been frightened by what that means. Is it coming back? Do the signs point to another long trip downhill? I don’t know. I do know that there have been chunks of days where I have felt dead. Or wanted to be dead. Or, more accurately, not seen any advantage to not being dead. These hours are relatively short and I can suddenly find myself feeling right again with no reason. But there are echoes of such a terrible time and it scares me witless. I can not live that way again. I will not.
It doesn’t feel like a permanent thing. It’s just very scary because I remember so clearly feeling that way all the time and the thought of that time is just dreadful. Painful. Too much to bear. I am thinking that all the work I have been doing on the OCD has revived some of my depressive tendencies. I also think that the situation at home has become so miserable that anyone living it would feel some sort of sadness and lethargy, and with my history and patterns of thought it’s probably very understandable that I am feeling this way.
As I’ve written this, I’ve rationalised it, and I know it’s not a return of the depression. It’s sadness, tiredness, and a bit of self-indulgence. I can cope with this. I can wait out those awful, dead hours because I know that the light will come back. I just have to stick with it. Keep breathing, keep thinking, keep writing. I need Ruby. I need to get into her and be her. I know she’s me, but she’s a me with added extras and so much more strength than I have at this moment. I need to find her, dress myself in her, think like her, walk like her, stand tall like her. Then I’ll be okay. I’ll be real again, loved again. A person with possibilities. A person who can’t be shattered by the piercing, casual cruelties that are currently being shot my way. I’ll wake her up, make her real, and then we can stomp into the future like the flamboyant, powerful, beautiful pirates we are.