All day long I’d been pacing around the house trying to keep myself busy, yet unable to concentrate on anything. All I could think about was escape. I felt a strong pull to just get out of here…but to where…and from what? I feel as though I'm trapped in an alternate reality of my own life.
Late in the afternoon I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my purse and keys and lurched toward the van, destinations shooting through my mind…Jane’s house, the beach, Palm Springs. I didn’t know until the main road came into view that there was only one place for me to go. I drove the half mile to Nick’s.
He was surprised to find me at his door but, seeing my distress, he led me to the sofa where uncontrollable sobs wracked me. Suddenly we found our roles reversed. Nick, whom I held and comforted when he was a small child, now held me in his strong arms and let me cry my full.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”
“Mom, you’re depressed.”
“I’m not depressed!” I cried.
But I know it’s true. I’ve been lying to myself as I steadily sink into this pit. I’ve believed I could reorient myself, find my own way out through prayer and meditation. But I’m only sinking further every day. I don’t know if this is grief related, or the clinical depression I’ve struggled with in the past, or if it’s a result of our family strife.
“You need to call your doctor, Mom. It’s time to get help and you know it.”
“They’ll want to put me back on meds. I hate the way they make me feel. Like a zombie.”
“Even feeling like a zombie for a little while would probably be better than feeling like this all the time. Right?”
“I suppose. But, am I ever going to feel normal again?”
Nick didn’t have an answer for that.
He’s right. It doesn’t matter what’s causing the depression. I have to get help, even if it means feeling flat for a time.
Tonight I feel spent and still lost, but no longer agitated.
However I'm left wondering… when will I feel normal again?
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