Today I am 34-years-and-one-day-old. Yesterday, I was spoiled and pampered, my phone constantly beeped and buzzed with well-wishers on Facebook, Instagram and Whatsapp. My kids showered me in bougainvillea petals (really) and my mom called to sing Happy Birthday with her usual song and dance. I dyed my hair pink and purple, treated myself to a new dress, put on some lipstick and laughed over dinner with my beau and our family.
By all accounts, it was a good day.
I held on to my smile even in the moments when no one was around to see. I was genuinely happy to see another year of life.
But at the same time, something inside of me was empty.
The night before, I was laying on the couch scrolling through social media and catching up on the days’ activities. The kids had been put to bed, the dishes had been washed, the laundry was folded and put away. And then it hit me.
The darkness that I knew was lurking in the corner of my mind came from behind the cloud and floored me.
All of a sudden I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so numb. So out of control. So helpless. So scared. So alone.
In a house of three children, two cats and a partner, I felt alone.
While I was laying there on the couch, the thought occurred to me that this is now my life; I will forever have these lows.
I’m so tired of my depression. So tired of it intervening and rearing its ugly head when it’s not welcome.
I know this moment will pass – they always do – but right now while I’m swimming in the dark waters, it feels like hell. I’m exhausted from the effort. I’m tired of going about my day with an it’s-going-to-be-okay face. Sometimes I just want to take off my mask, lie down in my bed, pull the covers to my chin, close my eyes and just be. I want to be okay in my depression, happy in the skin I’m in and all that, but I hate it. I hate my depression.