A fragile okay

As the Easter weekend draws in, I’m in reflective mood.

Last Easter – last Good Friday – I fell apart.

I was all set to end my life, and if Ian and Lindsey hadn’t intervened, I would have done.

This year, I’m okay.

Would I say I’m well? To be honest, not entirely. It’s been a tough week of too much work, not enough time, too many other commitments. As a result, my anxiety has been through the roof. I’ve hardly slept; I’ve felt sick and shaky with palpitations and an enormous sense of dread, of the thought that everything was about to come crashing down around me. I’ve been snappy and irritable and tearful at times.

But while I’m not where I want to be mentally, I’m not where I was.

I don’t know whether it’s healthy to read back over these blog posts; maybe not. But I have been, recently, and they’ve shocked me – even though I wrote them myself.

In the darkest times, I thought I was a fraud, putting it on, making a meal of things. I thought I should just be able to pull myself together.

Reading back, I don’t see that. I see someone who was very, very unwell. Someone who is extremely lucky to be here today.

This Easter, I’m in a different place.

I haven’t achieved the sortedness I long for – but I’m feeling more okay with that.

The person I want to be – the person who’s outgoing and gregarious, always ‘up,’ who can talk to anyone without squirming inside, who thrives on being with other people, who takes everything in her stride – that’s not me. Even if I recover 100 per cent, it’s not going to be me. Never has been, never will be.

I’m an introvert, a worrier, too serious, too melancholy, too needy. I’m impatient, I have a temper, I’m ultimately self-serving and sinful.

But that’s not depression. That’s me – and I need to come to terms with me. I haven’t yet; I’ve been deeply uncomfortable with me since as far back as I can remember. But I’m a work in progress.

And I am in a different place.

I’m looking forward to Easter this year. I’m looking forward to time spent with my family, and with my church family. I’m not planning, as I was last year, my route around the local shops after the Good Friday service to buy enough tablets to kill myself.

So I’m feeling reflective – and thankful.

Thankful for the medication that has helped to level things out a bit.

Thankful for Ian and the children, who give me a reason to live.

Thankful that God has been at work in the things I’ve messed up, and provided work that is compatible with my mental health.

Thankful for my friends who have unfailingly been there even though they could have run a mile.

Thankful that I feel now that I can ride out the downs and keep looking towards the ups.

And most of all, thankful to the Lord, who has, again and again, pulled me out of the pit.