Brave face

I have this brave face. A brave face that tells the outside world that everything is okay. That I’m happy. Fulfilled. Successful.

My brave face is strong. Defensive. Bright and breezy.

Shallow.

It’s been four months now since I admitted (to myself) that I was struggling with depression. But for most of that time, I have still worn that brave face. I have lain awake for hours in a barely suppressed state of panic, but pasted my brave face on the next morning. I have done a family Christmas wearing my brave face. I’ve paraded my brave face around the school playground, hoping that my smile would divert attention from the cuts hiding beneath my sleeves and the sick feeling of dread in my gut.

But then my brave face slipped.

Crisis point. Still doing my best to hide the truth, but wondering if this was actually a proper, real life breakdown. Whether I needed to be shut away somewhere until I was ready to face the world again. Cutting myself so deeply that I frightened myself.

My brave face slipped.

Something had to give.

I quit my post as a school governor. I spent several weeks unable to focus on work, worrying about it building up behind me but devoid of the mental capacity to focus on it. And people noticed. They had to.

Some people noticed, and some people I confided in. A few, a very select few. People I could trust. Some who I instinctively knew had been in the same dark place; some who I just felt safe talking to.

The brave face wasn’t working any more.

For a few weeks, I had so much support. So much love. People messaging me. Talking to me. Caring for me. Loving me.

I felt less alone.

But now. But now.

It’s been several weeks. My drugs have been increased. I’m going through therapy (ah, therapy, that great ‘talking cure’ that makes you feel a million times worse). I should be better. People think I should be better.

I am frustrating people. I know it. You take a pill, and it makes you well again, right?

It doesn’t seem that easy. Yes, I am better than I was. But I am not BETTER.

It feels very lonely to realise that the support I had has run out. But it has. I am boring, frustrating, aggravating, self-pitying. Other people are going through worse, far worse, than the self-indulgent pityfest that is depression.

It’s time to paste that brave face on again. Smile, laugh, chat. Post nonsense on Facebook, talk nonsense in the playground. Pretend to be fine. Pretend to be immune. Pretend to be me, old me, me how I used to be.

Brave face.