Hello darkness my old friend - Hello depression!
She came. She settled in for good. This time she's perhaps a bit more pleasant because she does not crumple, and doesn't sit with all its weight on my shoulders. But it is ubiquitous. Like she's laughing ironically in my face - and what, baby, you thought we'd never see each other again? I RULE here now. So rule. I give up. I'd like to go to the hospital. Took off the shackles of all responsibilities, of The fact that someone is counting on me, and wants something from me, that I'm responsible for someone. I'll leave it all behind me to someone else, someone who will hold it against me, unspoken of course, but so very obvious.
'You may be sick, but duties are duties. Get sick when you fulfill all your duties, when your house is tidy, the children are sleeping, and there is not a ton of laundry in the laundry basket. Oh, and the windows are washed. Order in the cupboards. Kids after play, not just tableted. It's when you've done everything that belongs to you, then you can allow yourself to feel bad. Then you can cry into a pillow or stare at the ceiling. Of course, we understand that you are sick, we are with you, we want to help you, just you know, get sick like, you know - asymptomatic. After all, what is a mental illness? How can you be tired, how can you not be able to do something? You're just lazy. Yes, we will help you, let me know if you need help'
'Ring ring mommy, I need help'
'But we also have our plans!'
Don't throw your plans for me, just tell me when you can and when you can't help instead of telling fucking everyone that I'm the reason you don't have a life of your own. Then don't help if you don't have your own life because of me. I'm just simulating. I manipulate.
Don't ask me how I feel, how am I doing. It doesn't matter. I don't want to tell you anything anymore. I'll tell you 'it's ok' and you'll pretend it's ok. After all - I had a relative order in the house this morning, for you it means it's not the worst yet, right? There was food in the fridge, children's breakfasts provided, clothes ready, and the floor "almost" clean. So everything is fine.
How's therapy? I don't know why you asking. Yes, therapy is fine. What should I tell you? That the therapist wanted to call an ambulance because she didn't know if I and the children were safe because I had thoughts of resignation? That the psychiatrist, when I wrote her that I need maybe more medication, she told me to go to the hospital for an emergency room "for a consultation?" So that you could ask me: how do I imagine it now? What about the children? What about my job? What about my debts? What about my cats? We know it's hard for you, but other people have it worse, I can tell you offhand about at least three people I know who have it worse. Everyone has bad days, but you have to pull yourself together, you have children to raise, I raised mine. Gash, we don't have a moment of peace with you, always something, always some of your rides.
And those people around, the kind ones who ask if they can help me in any way, if I want to talk. Like how do you want to help me? Will you take my kids for a week so I can recuperate on my own? Will you replace me at work? Like what do you want to talk about? What am I supposed to tell you, how is that supposed to help me? That I'll tell you I feel like shit? Like trapped? I don't have the strength to fight and believe that it'ill pass, and that it will be stable again for a while, normal, that I will have the strength to live somehow decently for my children, to be with them, not just next to them in minimum mode. Seriously, you want to hear about me stepping on the accelerator on the freeway hoping someone would suddenly jump out of me and I wouldn't be able to react? That I check on the Internet if I really will go to hell if I commit suicide. Phew, apparently God forgives people with mental illnesses. I'm supposed to tell you that I wonder if my miserable existence - vegetation - is what I want for my children, and yet I see that I can't give them anything else. Maybe Grandma will be better after all. "Grandparents have no obligation to raise your children, it's your responsibility." And you're an ungrateful bitch for complaining to someone about not getting emotional support from your parents when no one else got as much from them as you did. Yeah. You see? You're all fucked up.
There's so much inside of me, and at the same time, like nothing, I can't explain. Indifference, and as if something was bubbling somewhere inside, covered with a thick layer of something. I want to live normally, I want to feel something. Tastes, smells, I want to see colors. Don't feel this eternal fatigue, lack of strength for anything. I envy those who in a disease like mine has someone who will take care of them in such a basic way - do you eat properly, healthy, do you drink water, do you take medicines, and sleep properly, who will go with you for a walk, and when you cry tells you: I'm with you, don't be afraid, we'll survive this, I won't leave you. I love you just the way you are, and when you're sick, I love you even more. And he holds, holds tight in his arms, waits for you to fall asleep safely so that you won't be left alone with your thoughts and demons. But there is no one next to me. There is no one.
Someone was here and was
and then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly does not exist.
a fragment of the poem "Cat in an Empty Apartment" by Wisława Szymborska
