unmentionable

Some days are difficult to describe. Today was one of those days. In every way I should be content. I have bought a new house, and have now got it just about how I want it looking. I have some land, finally, in which to spread my dreams out and a house that is big enough (just) to contain me and my odd and errant ways. I have a fabulous family who have helped me immensely this week to get things moved without breaking the bank (or my back) and life, as it stands on record as stated, is great. I should be content, but I am not.

That's the trouble with depression, it robs you of even the most basic enjoyment. It hides in the shadows waiting for when you are at your weakest - in this instance, happy, carefree and with a new house to focus my mind. It hides there, serpentine, and waits for the optimum moment to strike, to lash out and sink fangs into your joy and suck it all out replacing it with poison, angst and regret.

Sometimes it feels like there is no answer, that depression poses an impossible question and demands an immediate response, knowing I have none to give. Most of all though, it feeds on positives and sours them. It takes my pride and love for my family and turns it to regret and guilt that I am not happier today, this week, right now having been helped and loved so obviously and wonderfully by those closest to me. How can I not be happy today? The new house, my pride and joy, my little piece of England becomes a permanent worry, obsessing (as we OCDers love to so very much) about every little detail or thing that might go wrong and robbing me of the enjoyment I want to have.

Depression is filth, it is a wretched, wicked and unwelcome blight and I am damned if I will let it win. This is not me, this is not the way my life will go. Maybe, just maybe, this is the day it pushed me too far and now it reaps the whirlwind. Maybe.