I hear myself repeating these words over and over again and it feels like some kind of mini-psychotic episode. My head is full of self-loathing and self-pity and I just want to evaporate.
Except I don’t.
I don’t do anything. I just sit with these feelings and let them wash through me. I let them drown me, until I can’t breathe, until I can, again. I let them suffocate me, until I find my sensibility again. I let them scour my soul until it’s raw and sore and I tell myself to “get over it”. And then I do.
Sometimes I cry. OK, most times I cry.
And I realise that the only thing I can do is to go to sleep. I take some Mersyndol for the headache I get after all the crying and curl up under my doona. The boys know things are not OK and leave me alone. They come and check on me and tell me to go to sleep. They tell me to make dinner “something easy, so you can go back to bed”.
These boys, they know.
They know that sometimes mummy is not OK.
They also know that she will be.
I am curious about these “I don’t matter” feelings. I wonder where they come from. Is it from my childhood, where I felt alone and forgotten? Is if from my adolescence where I was thrust into a new country alone and responsible for someone else?
I guess it doesn’t really matter. It only matters what I do with these feelings now. How do I start believing that I DO matter?
Depression is a bitch. And a liar.
I don’t know how to deal with its lies.
I do know that I matter to my children. And to my parents. And to my sister.
And that has to be enough.
Maybe, one day, I will matter to me.