the bad place

Husband says to drag them out back and shot them. I think it might help if I put funny hat on them all. Either way they are here, and might stay a while. Might as well invite them in for tea. Hoping there is some light on the other end of this tunnel.

Not because of all the drama that has been going on, I missed all but the tail end of that, but because of this:

I am barely hanging on my friends. Hell, I am even starting to make plans again. Not in a very pretty place. I’m not asking for pity. I know how beautiful it all is. It’s just this monster inside me making me feel as if the is no other choice. I do get through these. I just haven’t had one in awhile, and this one seems pretty bad. I’m scared, and lonely, and alone. And I need friends. I think I’m worth having friends, and worth frighting for even if 99% of me is telling me otherwise.

Notes after midnight

The time has come to find the answers. I can’t stand this much darkness. I don’t know how much longer I can hide from myself. Sinking in sadness. Sinking in sameness. Hiding from meomories. All that I ever was, all that I’ve ever done has been sucked into these two girls. All my time goes into them and into trying to find things to sink my sorrow into, trying not to remember, trying not to miss the life I had before them. Every morning feels like the one past. Every morning repeat. Is this yesterday or tomorrow? Does it matter? They all feel the same.

Therapy has been going well. I am actually improving. I like my therapist. I don’t cancel appointments or make excuses not to go. This is the first time in my life I am determined to get better. It is going to work. And it is. Sometimes I go into that office feeling ok about myself and leave feeling even better.

But…

The act of going though therapy is harder then the suffering you have inside, the pain, the depression. Therapy is a mirror that doesn’t lie. Therapy rips the thin band aid off the layers of unhealed infection. Naked. Truth. Can I have therapy for my therapy?

I hate how it is showing how sick I am. Open the hood and show how rotten it is inside. And it will stay rotten no matter how much you shine and polish the outside. You get a handle on one thing. One thing gets fixed. But oh, look at this… look how broken this is. And then there is this, and oh, under that there is this. Fix this. Fix this. Fix this. Dig out the infection.

I use my depression as a blanket. A safe place. I can’t do anything with my life because I’m sick. My mind is broken so go ask someone else. I’m the one who cries in the bathtub and won’t get out of bed. And if that doesn’t work I will self-medicate with food, or dump all my hurt into the mess around me. Chaos feeds chaos.

In the grip of it all I think that this is all there is. There is no getting better. I am stuck deep in this thick gunk. Why try. I don’t even know where to start.

My therapist says that I am not Depression Barbie. Depression is not me. I am Me Barbie with a depression accessory. This is not me. This is not me. This is not me. I am trying.

This goal has been bouncing around in my head for a while. I don’t know if I’ll even keep it up, or even keep the wording. I don’t know…

I have been a positive person my whole life. Nature and nurturer have taught me to be kind, always good. I like how I am. I like looking for the silver lining. I don’t complain. I go out of my way to be nice to someone. If a bad thought comes into my head I don’t give it voice.

But… sometimes all this turns into darkness inside, blackness, a bad place. Sometimes my goodness, my pureness, my trying to be prefect, never to do anything wrong, always please my family, my husband… hurts me. I have to let this bad place out.

I HAVE TO LET IT OUT!

I hope I don’t bother anyone with this goal, or that I offend. If I do let me know. But I have to let some of this tar out before it poisons my insides, and destroys all the goodness.