The grey has descended once more.
I thought I had it sorted, I thought I had fixed it. Just a couple of days ago I asked my GP if I could start weaning off my citalopram. I thought it was a good idea. He disagreed and now it seems with good reason.
Just a couple of days ago I thought I was coping with all that life has to throw at me. I was content with my little family, plodding along.
I was feeling better mentally and physically, settled.
Alas, it was not to last. Slowly but surely the black dog returned, along with his good friends that are the grey clouds and rain showers.
I should have known really, it never does. I should have been forewarned but I was not.
The sensible, more aware part of me tells me that low points are normal, that everyone has them. Another part of me answers back, arguing that I am too weak to handle them. It is just life.
I’ve spent most of my adult life being medicated. The last time I wasn’t medicated was during pregnancy and a short period post-partum. Before that, I cannot recall the last time I wasn’t popping one anti-depressant or another.
There have been very short periods, a week or so when I have stopped myself. Those periods never end well and I know I want to avoid that.
But how am I to know if what I feel is part and parcel of normality? How can I differentiate between that and actual depression? I don’t know any more.
The wine aisle in the local shop whispers my name. Asking me “What harm will one glass do?” but I know the answer to that. I can’t have just one glass. I can’t have enough. So I avoid it, remind myself that alcohol and happy pills and pain killers and beta blockers do not mix. So I pick up the chocolate instead, slightly recoiling at the price; when did that get so expensive?!
I snap at my beautiful, happy son for no reason other than he is being a four year old boy, one who is fiercely testing how much independence he can have and is curious about the growing world around him. The same little boy who crawls into my bed in the early hours, whispering he can’t get back to sleep because all he wants is a cuddle from mummy, reminding me he is still my baby.
I know what it is like to be on the peripheral of life, to not want to be here, to feel life is pointless and I know I am not there, yet.
I don’t know, or perhaps just can’t remember life before the happy pills were dished out, why I started taking them in the first place. I can’t seem to reach the depths of my memory that are needed to recall that. Perhaps I don’t really want to. Or maybe there was no real reason at all. Maybe I am just unable to cope with real life.