Robbed

My opinion about what the worst thing about depression is changes from day to day, depending on what I’m doing.

Sometimes it’s the self-doubt, when I’m up to my eyeballs in work and feel like every single word I churn out is rubbish, or when I’m absolutely 100 per cent convinced that I’m ruining my children’s lives.

Sometimes it’s the exhaustion, when I simply can’t go to that prayer meeting or stay awake beyond 9pm.

Sometimes it’s the paranoia that makes me think that my friends are not my friends, that people only speak to me because they pity me and that they’d all rather – as I would – I just didn’t exist.

Sometimes it’s the sense of sheer terror and dread that settles over me, even if all I’m doing is waiting in a queue in the chemist.

Today, it’s the feeling of being robbed.

I have so much. So, so much.

I have a husband and two amazing children.

I have a house that, while not big or impressive, meets our needs.

I’m paid to do something I love (or at least something I love when I’m feeling well).

I have friends – although, as above, I question their authenticity.

I also have a life that – even in the next few short months – is full of fantastic experiences.

Wales with friends. Katie’s ballet show. Tom’s drama performance. Center Parcs. Fun things at church. The icing on the cake: three and a half weeks in Singapore and Australia.

But I am dreading every minute.

Every single minute.

And it’s not right. I should be excited about all of these things. I should be embracing an opportunity of a lifetime to travel to the southern hemisphere and see my baby brother get married, my precious baby girl his flower girl.

All of these things should be exciting, things to celebrate and make me happy.

Instead, they fill me with fear and dread.

Even today I’ve felt it. I went into school this morning for Katie’s reading morning.

I clung to her, while we were reading, as if she were my anchor.

I should be holding her up, not the other way round.

I went to see her make her Rainbows promise.

Thankfully I wore my sunglasses, because I cried. Not out of pride or happiness, but because all I could think was, my beautiful, smiley, happy poppet deserves someone who can get excited about these things for her.

So today, the worst thing about depression is that it’s a thief.

It’s taking all these experiences that should be fun and exciting and life affirming, and making them frightening and overwhelming and unbearable.

How I wish it would leave me alone.