Life is War
Tons of meds and still my life is a war zone. The debris of an unlived life looking me in the face everywhere I turn. The urgency of daily living demands that I be armored for the battle. I need to put on the "coping with depression" mind tricks to protect myself from the world full of pain and criticism. But sometimes it's not just armor to protect me, it's also that I'm forced to work in a mental MASH unit, wearing surgical masks, and the ultra clean uniform so that I won't infect those around me.
I'm contaminated and I must therefore be conscientious enough to protect others from my germs and my constant negative reality. Daily, I have to rise up and try to disregard the madness so that I may bring something to those who cannot live in my world. I have to rise up and fake it so that they are not forced to die by association to this disease of depression.
The real battlefield lies within me, the constant voice that has to be fought, avoided, and often hid from. The part of me that aches to die, the part of me that is dying, and the part of me that is already dead. I'm not equipped to be working in a MASH unit 24/7, but that appears to be my sentence, though I don't know my crime.
I somehow survive the mine fields at work coming home only to find myself yelling at my kids because the armor's worn away. Their beautiful imperfections and need for their mommy's time become daggers. I can't maintain the facade of adequacy, of competency, at home.
Daily, I have to choose between yelling at my kids or withdrawing and vegetating in my room alone because the war in my head creates impatience and irritability. Surely isolation, it seems, is better than yelling at them. The war of depression has killed my body and my dreams, and now it won't even allow me to enjoy and properly love my children.
It's harder to fight when it there's emotion involved. The armor works best in a non-emotional world. The world of work, as long as it remains objective, the world of serving, as long as I don't ask others to support me.
Yet the bullets that are killing me the most are the ones that that come from inside my body, from deep in my soul. The near constant reminders of how my dreams have been destroyed. How my kids don't have me, how I have no man to love.
I'm tired of being told that the things I'm worrying about are "non-essentials" and that I need to be patient. I've been patient for 30 years. Why can't people see that as long as my soul remains alone and unable to be free to love the way I want to love, that I'm not going to be free of this depression?
Will the war in my head ever stop?
Published by Aurora Knight
Single mom View profile
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