Any time I’m depressed I tend to go through my life and attempt some sort of self reflection. Regardless of depression or not I feel that this is something important that we should all do at some point or another. We need to know that we’re okay. We need to discover what is bothering us and be able to pinpoint it. If we don’t then this delays us in being able to develop and find coping mechanisms that work for us in order to help us move forward in life. So while I am marching forward and making myself get out of bed each morning I found myself thinking I probably need to go see a therapist. Even though typing out my last entry helped me tremendously, and others which makes me happy but sad others know this pain at the same time, I feel I need more help than just writing it out.
It hit me not so long ago that in August this year it will be ten years since my mother passed. This isn’t anything I didn’t already know, but the thought had not hit me like a ton of bricks until the other day. A ton of bricks that were beyond suffocating. In many ways it was like they all fell on top of me with enough space for me to breath, but the bricks continued to press against my chest and attempt to slowly attempt to crush me and take what little breath I had left to give. It just seems the more I think about this so-called anniversary date the worse it becomes. Worse as in I had my first panic attack in I don’t know how long because as I was lying in bed Sunday night. I thought about all the things I have wanted to tell her in the past ten years. All the things I will want to tell her by the end of the year. ALL. THE. THINGS.
As I thought about this I felt the attack coming on. I even attempted to convince myself that there was no point in having a panic attack. As anyone who has had a panic attack knows it’s difficult to talk having one down. Instead it turned into a full blown attack that I had to figure out without pills, despite having taken my medication for depression/anxiety earlier in the evening, and I to let the attack ride out. During the attack I thought of everything else that needed to get done in the house. Things I have neglected because my energy levels were not there to clean as much as I hate how my room looks currently. As I thought this it grew worse and then I felt a nuzzle of my eldest cat’s head against my hand.
She climbed on my chest and laid against it. I started to pet her and slowly I reminded myself how to breathe. I inhaled slowly and exhaled slowly. Suddenly I was reminding myself even if it takes baby steps everything that had to get done would get done. Everything takes time and even though I have not lived up to my hour a day method that I wanted to live up to, due to the depression, that the house will be clean eventually. I even thought to myself maybe we could have a yard sale. I just calmed down through tears and petting Willow. She has been with me through many panic attacks and I think she knows how to handle them better than I do sometimes.
Regardless, it hit me that the thing I encouraged so many others to do I’ve never done. In many ways I feel I have a lifetime of stuff to deal with, but ten years of heartache. Ten years of denial. Ten years of anger. The spectrum of emotions and the amount of people I have loss and not acknowledged because I wanted to be strong for others are a mile long. Summing them up in a paragraph on Facebook was a step, but not one that truly let me feel the loss. I know that grief doesn’t have a time table, but sometimes I can’t help but think finding a vampire that could compel me not to feel would be great at times. The truth is though not feeling is not an option anymore. My feelings should not be negated. It’s taken me ten years to figure that out, but it’s a start.