Three Days

On Friday, I posted this. It was difficult for me to write, and I hesitated to put it online, but everything in it is true, so up on the blog it went. It was picked up by one of my online heroes, Rosalind Robertson (follow her, she’s amazing), who reblogged it on tumblr and was kind enough to comment on it. 

Now, I should point out that at that point, my blog had been up all of three days. I’ve been longing to write for years but was too intimidated. Depression lies, and mine kept telling me that I had nothing of value to say. That my words are worthless, just like I am. 

For once I didn’t listen, and the post was greeted with so much empathy and support that I wept with relief and, frankly, disbelief. Here was the kind of support and understanding that has been absent in my day-to-day life. Although I wish there were not so many people out there struggling with depression, I find a bittersweet solace in the thought that at least I’m not alone. None of us are. It’s a clichéd sentiment but profoundly true.

On Friday night I slept, soundly, for the first time in weeks. It wasn’t uninterrupted sleep (shout out to interstitial cystitis), but it was restful. I woke on Saturday feeling calm, a far cry from my typical waking state of panic and fear and self-loathing. I wasn’t magically cured of my depression, but it felt manageable for the first time in a while. 

The sun was out after a few grey, rainy days. I made whole-grain blueberry pancakes for my family. I relaxed in a ray of sunshine and drank my favorite herbal tea. I sat on the sofa Saturday night and laughed out loud while watching tv with my spouse. Saturday was a good day, by my standards.

Around 3 a.m. this morning, I got out bed for the fourth or fifth time since falling asleep close to midnight. When I tried to stand upright, I experienced such searing, agonizing pain that I had to lean against a bookcase for support. My abdomen felt like I’d been stabbed with a hot blade. I started crying involuntarily and, honestly, rather angrily. To paraphrase my favorite author, the late and incomparable Sir Terry Pratchett, what an embuggerance.  

From great day to fully realized IC flare in 18 hours.

There’s something to be said for what chronic illness and/or physical pain can do to your mental state. But I’m all out of words right now, at least those of the SFW variety.

Three days. 

What a ride.