Or don’t. But whatever you do, expect no more from me right now. I’ve loused things up enough for the moment.
I was right in thinking I never should have published that last post, you see. Because that post has caused exponential worry. It has caused the people who read it to worry. It has caused the people who read its mothers to worry, because the people who read it worried so.
Now please, know that when I am in a marginally better place, I am grateful for all of the love and support and the hands reaching out for me. But when I am here, when I am so goddamned exhausted that even typing these few hundred words is a Herculean effort on my part, well right now. . .
Here’s how it goes. When people worry about me, I feel badly and try to make them worry less. I make sure to keep phone dates and return texts and reply to emails. But this depression, the one I am in right now, I just can’t do it. Which, of course, only makes people worry more.
So here are the facts. I am profoundly depressed, I am physically exhausted in a way I can scarcely ever remember being, I am severely anxious, and I have been psychotic recently. I have seen my doctor, I am trying a different medication combo, I will keep in close contact with him. I live in my home with my two extremely vigilant parents, one of whom sees or talks to me at least once a day. I have never seriously harmed myself, nor have I ever attempted to take my own life. This is not my first depressed state, nor will it be my last. And that’s a good thing, because I know enough to know that I just have to take my pills and wait this shit out. I’ve lived this long with it, I imagine I can slug through some considerable time longer.
My friend Suzie Ivy taught me a very, very important lesson, though I didn’t tell her at the time. She made a comment on a post I wrote many months ago, to the effect that she is a mother, and a grandmother, and it is her right to worry if she wants to. Suzie is an incredible friend, and a wise, wise lady, for so many more reasons than just that comment. But she’s one hundred percent correct. It is her right to worry if she wants to.
Just as it is the right of everyone who loves and cares about me to worry. If you want to. It’s not going to make me any better, but go right ahead. And this might sound awfully callous of me, but I here and now wash my hands of it and permit myself to go forward without guilt. I shouldn’t have written that last post, and I have confessed my sin and God has given me my penance and it has been paid (and I mean every bit of that seriously, with all of the Catholic I have still in me).
So go right ahead and worry about me, if that’s your choice. Just remember that there is a difference between caring and worrying, and unlike caring, worrying is exactly that: your choice.
(And as I reread this, yes, I find it a bit of a harsh missive to a great many kind people, and I wish I could get my message through without seeming such a bitch. But that’s the point, don’t you see?)
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