Saturday, August 16, 2014

Robin Williams and the black dog

When anyone dies short of the 'ripe old age' there is always going to be that question.  Why?
Why him. Why now?

If cancer which seems so fickle in its choice of victim is hard to understand, how much harder is depression.

From the outside it seems impossible that on the inside there is no hope.  The outside world sees lovely children. Comfortable home. Loving family. But the inside world is beset by self doubt. Fear of disappointing loved ones, stress of responsibility, hopelessness in reaching goals we set ourselves. And when it's really bad, there is no were to turn.  Every direction there is failure staring at you. Worry eying you off. There is no soft place, no where you can rest from all these horrible thoughts that are pulling you to pieces. Smothering you with their load.

A couple of times now I have hit the point where I just wanted it to stop.  I wanted it to Stop so badly that I would gladly have stepped out of life. Fortunately I couldn't do it to my kids.  I just didn't want that fate for them.

That doesn't make me better than the person who took it to the fatal step  just means what was in their head was worse than in mine.

It would be lovely to say that's behind me now.  I guess it is to a degree... but only over my shoulder,  not vanquished.
Today I feel sad.  Flat and awful. And I wanted to be rescued.  Didn't happen.  I hope tomorrow is fresh and new and I don't have to remember tonight.