I am suffering from a bout of depression. I’ve learned from experience that they can often come on when I get overwhelmed. I should know this by now and guard like hell against getting to this point, but I was convinced I was ready to take anything on. I was feeling so good.

And then, several life events converged and now, all at once, big things are happening. All good things (albeit stressful) but it was just enough to tip the scales and here I am, struggling to get out of bed and to function again. It helps to have support, but the depression always turns itself inside me and becomes a constant attack on my self worth, so I feel as though I’m a burden. And the more depressed I feel, the more help I need, and thus the more burdensome I feel I’ve become and this makes the depression worse.

I know this is an illness. I know that I’m not being difficult, moody or needy. I know that logically, but the depression itself lies to me and convincingly tells me differently. The battle of hanging on to what my stable brain would normally be able to tell itself while the off-kilter brain tells me I’m horrible in every way is a giant strain. The depression steals all energy, hope and motivation from me and then to compound the pain, it adds guilt to the mix.

I’m doing everything I can to take care of myself. I’m seeing a therapist a naturopath and a psychiatric nurse. I’m taking all the supplements I’m supposed to be taking and trying to rest, but life requires that I be there and I don’t have the energy for that. Small decisions feel impossibly demanding. I just need a lot of support. I see this taking its toll on my partner. And I’m angry. I’m angry that I have this brain and that I’ve suffered the trauma that I’ve suffered. I feel sorry for myself. I feel sorry for him. I feel anxious and sad.

I’m not suicidal at all, I promise, but I do sometimes think that Dirk would be better off without me and my illness. And then I realize that that is not me thinking those thoughts. It’s my depression telling me that. It lies. And this won’t last forever. I’ll get better and I won’t necessarily always fall back into this dark place every time my life gets overwhelming.

I am not a bad person because I need help. I’m still worthy of love. I just have to keep repeating that to myself over and over and over again.

I’ll get better. But depression didn’t steal me away quite like this before Dave died. It’s as if my thermostat for being depressed was set at a more sensitive setting when he died. It was the final straw, maybe?

I hate it. It is my dark companion. But I know that I’m not doomed and the fact that Dave didn’t get to live gives me an extra (though currently harder to access) desire to make my life really worth it in exchange.