I realised something yesterday. I kinda realised it a week or so a go but it was yesterday that it clicked. Really clicked.
In this house, my depression is the big fat elephant sitting in the corner on top of the ironing pile I still haven't got round to. I know it makes my husband uncomfortable. I know my family think I'm being dramatic. But here's the thing... I HAVE DEPRESSION.
When the doctor diagnosed me, I took the prescription and hurried out of the surgery. It's still in the drawer upstairs, I'm yet to swap it for anti-depressants. I'm trying to kick it on my own. Am I succeeding? Ask me next week.
But what I realised yesterday is that, once again, I've been transported back to my twelve year old self: an excruciatingly shy, awkward mess. I don't know why, I used to be so good at letting go and being crazy. But something has shifted and it hurts again.
Sometimes, I dodge socialising. What if my hair looks shit? Or my make-up too much? What if I look fat that day or I'm wearing something that looks stupid? Where has this come from? Where has my confidence gone? I've made plans and cancelled them last minute because I just cannot bear to risk any of the above. I find it hard to be silly. Stupid, seeings as I have a kid. But around her, I'm fine. I don't mind looking like a tool, it's around other Mum's I have a problem.
Motherhood isn't a competition, christ knows I know a lot of Mum's suffering with depression. And most of these Mums are crazy. Jolly, loud, fun, outgoing Mums. So why can't I let go?