Writing is really the only thing that makes me feel better. Apart from booze, which I know is pretty much unhelpful. I’m going back to my GP tomorrow. To confess my sins and up the meds.
My Dad called again tonight. He has a wonderful way of letting you tell him what’s wrong and yet be calm as a fucking cucumber. He listens and doesn’t judge. He finds solutions and tries to make everything easier. He wants me to come see him at the end of this month in HK. I worry I’m going to ruin his holiday with his friends, but I want to see him so badly. I’m not sure what I will do. I’ve been as honest as I can with him and he, in turn, has been stoic and supportive and wonderful in his understated own way.
He just sent me a text saying
“Stay strong, you’ll make it. Love you xxx”
I’ve forgotten people can be so understanding and kind. Right now I find it hard to reply to them all. I’m taking small, tentative steps towards normality. It’s been five months since I actually cried and now I find I can’t stop. I’m either crying or sleeping. I’m scared to leave the house alone. I have the Fear again.
I hate that this seems like such a middle class white person’s lifestyle disease. That so many people do not understand what depression and anxiety can do to you. I don’t choose it. I don’t want it. I can’t snap my fingers and make it stop because I’d love more than anything to just live normally and not have this. Never have this. It seems like failure. As if I haven’t tried hard enough.
But it’s like swimming against the tide. You get so tired, so fucking tired. You are fighting yourself every day and its exhausting. I’m exhausted. But I’ve been given some time to work things out, which I am grateful for.
I miss my family. I miss having someone to come home to. I miss my sanity and ability to cope. I’m a fucking idiot.
I’ve had longer and longer periods of clarity and freedom from this thing over the years and I’m grateful for this also. This crash was unexpected. But it’s all mine. I own it. And tomorrow will be better.