I had heard her creeping around, staking us out. I knew she was coming.
She burst into our home, the embodiment of thunder, to the cries of the wailing bean sidhe. Seizing my head she began to suffocate me. My struggle only lasted as long as my energy.
I know Depression well now. She only attacks until she’s had her way and left me discarded and spent to deal with her wake.
And so I tried to get up this morning, as if everything was normal. I have three children to get to school.
And no-one else can see Depression. No-one else can understand that I’m late because oxygen is not yet running through my body. My brain is heavy. My muscles are aching. My bones are sore.
I wake up knowing that I need to shake it off and get on with my day.
But I know she’s coming back. She always stays for a while.
I wake up knowing that I’m going to get mugged again. And nothing, none of the ordinary everyday practicalities seem important. I’m trying to get my dishes done while I anticipate being beaten again. Priorities change under conditions of war.
I have spent enough years with Depression’s visits to know that she doesn’t stay long. To know that I need to take action. I need to put things into my life that are happy, joyous and free.
But take a moment to imagine how difficult and unrealistic those tasks become when you’re trying to parent, alone, in a warzone.