So this weekend was filled to the brim with a family sick with snot, fevers, aching joints, itchy lumps and pressure. Pressure that sits like a fist between my forehead and my brain. Threatening, threatening…..
I’ll admit I am surprised that the depression I have is typified by rage. I’d always thought of depression as a passive, lethargic condition. Typified by inactivity, but it’s not….it’s a constant buzzing activity that when she flares hassles and harangues into trauma; into the smallest version of ourselves both fighting and defeated. On the weekend it came as a pressure filled fist lodged in my cranium, bullying.
For the most part I ducked and weaved, retreated, distracted, slept and avoided the threat of my mental aggressor. Then I missed, I stumbled and the blows landed, and rage flooded so that my vision blurred and the remote was thrown and broken.
And a magazine with a beautiful cover was torn, so that I wouldn’t abuse my husband or my self. So, that I wouldn’t drag a nail up my calf to feel something more concrete then the fantasy of fury and the delusion of malaise.
Depression is a fight and one so furiously awful that sometimes the best way to cope is to drag the doona over and avert our eyes from the violence…..
This weekend’s battle was only a small incidence really. And one that I won, so that if people ask how I am, I can still say ‘good’.
However, maybe when we talk about the depression we talk about the WAR and not all the little battles where the war is fought? The moments….
The thing I am finding hard is to remember that when a battle is won the war is not over and that I must arm myself with wartime provisions. Sleep, walks and other things I’ve discovered to be more real than the fantasy of fury and the delusion of malaise:
a beautiful leaf
a husband who cuts light into our backyard and timber for our fires
the movie singing in the rain
the grip of a baby’s fist in my hair