Reclusive would be Ideal

To be a recluse. A person who lives in seclusion. That would be oh so lovely right now. Deal with my depression all by myself. Instead of being surrounded by the things driving me deeper into it.

But as much as that is what I need, that is not what I get. I get instead, to be the mom. I get to put on a mask of happiness. I’m not sure it even works anymore, the fake happy version of myself. But it’s all I have within me so it’ll have to do until.

Until?

I’m not quite sure until. Things are changing soon. Not the way I wanted them to change but will probably be a change for better anyhow. Not a perfect change but life was never meant to be. My hope is that it’s enough of a change to snap me out of this funk. This hatred and loathing of this life I’m living right this second.

I’m alone. I live 30 minutes from town and own a vehicle that costs $85 to fill up with gas. I’m trapped out here. With never quiet children. With no friends, no true friends… my friends come over, we visit, I am not ok. I don’t care… my children run around me in circles screaming and laughing and I can’t concentrate on a thing my friend is saying and I’m so not into this life I lead that I don’t even care to talk anymore anyway. I don’t want to talk about our children. I don’t want to talk about our husbands. I don’t want to talk about hobbies. I don’t want to exist. I want to curl in a ball and sleep. We can talk about darkness, sadness, the burning resentful hole in my soul that has grown and grown from years of not demanding my needs met.

But who wants to talk about that? Who wants to hear that I’m suffering? Who cares?

Nobody. That’s who. Nobody cares. Not them, not you, not anyone. Not really. Just enough to want to shut me up.
Ariana, things are fine… your children are healthy and happy, your husband provides for your family… let’s list all the great things in your life and all the things you aren’t plagued with and then you’ll be happy and I won’t have to keep trying to find the right words to get you to stop talking about these dark things.

And I know those things. I know they’re all true. I know them, I do. But I don’t feel them. Not right now. Someday I will, the depression will pass like it always does, perhaps with some extra stuff in my blood (iron, b12, vitamin D, I’m chronically low on all of those) I’ll be fine… for now, now I’m not.

But I do love these people. The love keeps me going, keeps me trying as hard as I can.
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