We say we’re okay talking about mental health, but why then does it still not feel okay to admit depression. And why even the word “admit.” As soon as we hear someone even suggest that’s where they’re at, a place we’ve all been, we start the rallying cry to pull them up and out.
What’s the one thing the movie Inside Out tried so desperately to remind us? Sometimes, sadness makes us… feel better. Sometime sadness is a good listener, without judgement, without discomfort being in its own prescence.
I know, I know! I do it too. I hear your sadness and I attempt to pull up my strongest quotes and my wittiest and sharpest perspectives. I don’t want to see anyone down, it pains me so. I want to stop your bleeding and by so doing, my own.
But lately we’ve been accusing sadness of being stuck in the past. Right. We’ve all read that quote. But right now, right here, for me, that’s not what it is.
It’s the exhaustion associated with the intense frustration of putting all your energy and might and heart into making even the smallest dent in what’s got you down, and it’s Not. Working. At all.
See, there I go. I’m hiding behind the word “sadness” again. I can’t even say the word depression. Because, oh the implications of that! This is the same crap I pulled (and already wrote about here in The Truth) when I refused to admit for a year (husband says longer) that I had post-partum depression.
Look. I’ll be alright. I just need to lie down for a while. I do some good thinking when I’m quiet. And I still do notice the sweetness of my baby girl’s cheeky smile and I still do feel the love that my hubby pours over me by decorating our front yard like crazy for the holidays.
It’s just that I want us to be clear that-
1). It’s a real thing.
2). We don’t always need to be rescued from it.
3). It’s kinda where I’m at. And that’s the hardest thing on earth for me to admit so I’m purposely writing it. Out loud. In public.
I love you guys like crazy. My heart is always true.