I cannot tell you how much I HATE this!

Look, I’m sorry, I really am.

I honestly do everything I can to stop this happening – to help myself – and to help you, because I love you, and I don’t want you to have to go through this – again.

Yes, I am taking my medication, morning and night. No, I didn’t work too hard. Yes, I did try to sleep; I absolutely ate right; I did take exercise and I tried hard to meditate (okay – so I failed on that one) and I thought positive every day.

I did all those things and still, here I am. Thank you, black pit of despair. I’m obliged, huge hairy dark dog depression. You’re welcome, great grey leviathan of the vast belly that swallows me whole and digests even the bones of my humanity. Yes, thank you very much.

Oh, I would be so angry! But you rob me of even that – you b**tard! You rob me of all real emotion.

You leave me with the mere concept of feeling. I can say “Thank you,” to friends who send me messages of support. I can reach ghostly arms in an ephemeral hug to those who really understand; I can shed tears while reaching across the wide chasm of dark to my precious loved ones: but none of this can touch me. The plus side? Even the desire for suicide is tissue-thin.

I would say, “Thank goodness for small mercies,” but, in the long term, I guess this is a seriously big mercy.

I guess…

The worst of it is that I could see it coming.

I knew I was on a high; a modified high to be sure – praise science for medication – but I knew where I was. I knew when I was coming out of that high into the low: jitteriness (spiders under my skin), the upset stomach, the super-sensitivity – and this morning, at 11.15am (give or take a few minutes), I felt the crash into the down; the grey; the depression.

And I’m just so sorry.

I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I can’t be there for you in your need. I’m sorry I’ve retreated into that dark place where you cannot follow.

If I confide in you, then I’m sorry for that burden. I’m sorry I cannot respond to your jokes. I’m sorry you cannot reach me.

If you do manage to touch me then I’m sorry I snap at you; I’m sorry for the vicious words and the tears.

This is not what I want and it’s not me. Please – this isn’t me!

The person who is “me” has been kidnapped (again) by this illness. I will escape – again – and return to you, I promise.

Just, please, don’t give up on me; don’t lose faith; don’t walk away.

I’ve been here before and I’ve come through before.

Please be patient and wait for me to return.

And (again) I’m just so sorry.

I’m sorry.

Mary

A Moodscope member.