Coming out of the surgery yesterday, I held the door open for an older chap on crutches. He thanked me, and then muttered ‘I’ve been in there, and I feel bloody worse now!’ It reminded me so much of my dad somehow that I had to smile, but I did sort of know what he meant!
It’s almost as though, having been given a diagnosis of depression, I sort of feel worse. I know in reality I feel exactly the same as I have for weeks and weeks, but the difference now is that I have a concrete reason for it, and instead of beating myself up constantly for failing at everything, forgetting things, not doing the washing, not doing the shopping, just basically not coping with the basic everyday stuff, never mind anything more complicated – now I have a reason for all of that and it’s an illness not a failing.
I’m suddenly more aware of how slow and groggy I feel, now I’m not trying to deny it and push through it any more. How much I need to pace myself, now I’m not trying to stay in do-everything-before-lunchtime-and-do-it-all-perfectly mode.
Today, I am giving in to the urge to snuggle down and hibernate under a blanket on the sofa with an enormous cup of tea, for as long as I feel I need to. But I’m giving myself easy goals in between the hibernations. Goals I know I can accomplish, like sticking the next lot of damp washing on the radiators (done. With added Febreze to mask the ones that had been waiting a little too long in the basket… I am sure I’m not the only person who does that…!).
I’m not expecting a great deal of myself this week. Certain things have to be done. But in between, I’m snuggling. This won’t be forever. I hope.