About two years ago I had a thought. It was one of those thoughts you don’t tell anyone about. One of those thoughts that in the moment are all consuming and feel like the only thing you can think about.
I thought to myself, I hate myself so much that I don’t even care anymore. My depression has reached a new level, one where I’m no longer angry or anxious. I’m simply done. I had spend all morning listening to screaming and crying. I fought every instinct I had. I was done being a parent, I knew my husband could handle the spilt milk and tantrums. Me? I couldn’t handle putting on my own shoes at that point. So I walked out the door barefoot in pjs with my uniform in my backpack ready to walk to work like I had to do. I made it around the corner store and another block down the road before I finally just stopped. I sat in some strangers yard and wiped my feet off and put my shoes on.
I thought for sure I would cry, or call out of work. I was clearly a mess. However that’s when it happened. A single thought came into my mind, I hate myself too much to care about about anything. And so I sat there for half hour just watching the cars drive by. Listening to the wind blow and just kept breathing.
I though about calling someone or scheduling a extea therapy appointment. However, I knew for the first time I would probably spill all my intrusive thoughts. So I just thought I need one though to hold onto. I took me a little while to find it, but I did and now every time I reach this kind of depression I simply think to myself.
This would be the moment if I didn’t know someone somewhere cared, I’d give it all up.
But I won’t because this moment isn’t forever.