I’m sitting here trying to find a way to write about the severe anxiety and depression that have been riding my back since my separation in October. The overwhelming factors that cause me to break down in tears almost every night, sitting in my bed and praying for some magical answer I don’t have and won’t have. For some saving grace that won’t come. Praying for peace in my mind, for freedom from years of winding wires that have bound my brain to denigrate my existence. For freedom from the voice that tells me I am not enough and never will be. For freedom from the whispers that tell me I am not good enough to go on. I pray every night to someone – anyone who might listen. I don’t prescribe to the idea of a god or the god, so it’s hard for me to figure out who to ask for help and guidance.
Sometimes I ask my grandmothers. Sometimes I hear my grandfather’s voice whisper “sweetheart,” just that one word, because that’s the only word that still carries his voice. Sometimes I just hear my grandmother say “babe,” like she said to me when she asked me to help her with something.
Sometimes I see my daughter’s smile, or I hear her laugh, even if she’s not here in my house with me.
And sometimes I hear nothing, and I feel the loneliness that’s on my shoulders heavier then. We talk so much about self care, about looking after ourselves. And we do need that. But there are nights when I find myself laying on my kitchen floor crying, because I don’t know what to do. I’m reminded I’m a burden to my family. I’m reminded I don’t really have many friends. I’m reminded that neither of my marriages were ever really a partnership. I’m reminded that when I can’t get myself up off that floor, there’s really no one else there to help me. Some might try, but my burdens are too heavy now.
Some nights, giving up makes sense. Carrying all this weight is exhausting. Burdening my family like this is exhausting.
I’m sick of being the bad child.