Emergeing

“I am prone to depression”.

No.

“Sometimes I get depressed”.

No.

“I struggle with dep-” No.

“Depression has always been a-” No, that’s stupid.

I never talk about it except to my husband, and even that is new. Before him, the only time I came close to discussing it was if someone demanded that yes-I-did remember that-one-time that-one-thing happened, and I have to find a delicate and elusive way around the fact that I don’t. At all. I don’t remember most of what you said or he said or she said or I said at all during that particular time. The worst “bout of depression” years ago, that required 4 or 5 different prescriptions and a psychologist to fish me back out. I am still fascinated by stories with me in them that happened during that time; pictures with me in them that I don’t remember posing for. I lost a lot of that time, but the point is, I survived, and for the most part, for most of the time, that was all I was doing.

And now when it creeps in, I hide and deny. I don’t want drugs or doctors or labels or diagnoses. I am immediately terrified that it is going to get that bad again and I hide and pretend I am fine; all the while snapping at my family, agonizing over old wounds I can’t bear to let heal, building walls, rationalizing the idea of never leaving the house again. Giving in.

And then I emerge and I look around, three months later this time, and realize I have been disconnected, disjointed, disengaged. I come out with almost a manic explosion; I need to write this out, check everything, ask everyone, know everything, NOW. I have to get out, get moving, get something, go somewhere – do something. All in an effort to bandage anything I let bleed while I was ‘gone’. Gather up anything I missed, pick up whatever I dropped, feel anything I shuttered against and let bounce off me while I was under my rock.

I hate and love this part. Hate that I missed things. Hate that my baby is four months old and I just shrugged a three month drudge off my shoulders. Love that it didn’t last three years and I am here now. Hate that I must have felt distant to my kids and they (like I did at their ages) may have wondered what they did to deserve that. Love that I came out of it long before they got fed up and gave up on me (like I did at their ages).

Finally the blackness has lifted, but my bones ache after dragging it around for so many miles.

But it lifted, and I came out and now I am gathering up everything I missed out on while I was gone, and that’s the point.

There. Now I officially ‘talk’ about it.