Sorry

I'm feeling sorry for myself.

I am. I know it's the nature of depression, to feel sorry for myself sometimes. Not all the time, not even most or much of the time...but sometimes. This is one of those times.

I wasn't. Feeling sorry for myself, I mean. I was, in fact, feeling rather good about things earlier today. I tried to help, and I hope succeeded in helping, a friend. I played with my son. Did some laundry and tidied the kitchen a bit. Made lunch.

And then?

I don't know.

Then I started feeling...low. Lonely. Feeling what's always there, just below the surface, waiting until I am unawares to bubble up and remind me that I'm not a happy person, however much I may be smiling lately.

Maybe it started with another blog I read, one that triggered memories of emotional and verbal abuse from my childhood...echoes of a cold, calculating voice telling me I'm not good enough, I'm boring and stupid and fat and weak and no one really wants me, they're just being nice, they're all out to use me and when I'm no longer useful they'll leave me alone again and...shut up, shut up, shut up...

Maybe it started when my son asked if we could order pizza - something he used to have once a week with his father before the divorce, on the one night a week I had a few hours to myself and as part of their special time together - and I had to tell him no, we can't afford it. He was philosophical about it...but it hurt me to tell him no to such a simple request.

Maybe it got worse when I finally admitted I needed a friend to talk to...and then realized there's no one I can (or want to) call. My mother is sick, and I really don't want to bother her. What about this friend? No - out of town for business, doesn't need me bringing her down and anyway, she's probably really busy. How about...? Nope - out of town guests in for the weekend, and two kids...really, she'd take the time but I won't ask. Or there's... No, wait, she hasn't been well, her mother's in and out of the hospital, her roof leaked during the floods last month, and she doesn't need my petty little foolishness added to all that. I could call... No, no I couldn't...because I don't want to trouble someone who's having issues of his own with what amounts to nothing more than memories and mood swings.

I came to the conclusion that I'm the one everyone else knows, KNOWS, they can call. Any time, for any reason, if they need me, they know without question they can call, and I'll answer. And if they need me to, I'll come over and be there for them. I have driven to New York on a moment's notice, because a friend called. I've dropped everything to smuggle a baby chicken into the hospital for a friend (funny story, that, and not at all as weird as it sounds). I've helped bury pets, talked a Vietnam veteran down from nightmares night after night, gotten money to stranded people, driven out to Las Vegas and back to get someone home, cooked and delivered meals to sick or hungry people, given money I couldn't spare to someone who had less, opened my home to someone who would otherwise be homeless, been available to help rescue battered women, ready to drive them to a shelter or a secret house, and always, always, I answer the phone and listen.

But when I think about the people I know and love...I can't think of anyone I want to bother with my irrational tears and feelings of worthlessness. It's not that they say "Don't call" Quite the opposite - they invite me to reach out.

I suck at reaching out. Sometimes, no matter how much I'm hurting, I can't tell anyone...I'm so used to carrying it within me, silent...but if only someone would notice, would ask, would tell me they KNOW something's wrong and then wait...sometimes then, I can find a way...

Sometimes, too, I feel like it's an intrusion on their lives, despite their words. It's so easy to SAY "If you need me, you can call any time." Much harder to understand what that means and maintain the sentiment. People have jobs. They have families and lives and things that have meaning to them...and really, I just don't figure I'm one of them. Well...not like that, anyway...not in a boring, needy, depressed now and always sort of way.

So I'm feeling sorry for myself, and lonely, and alone, and I can't do anything about it because I'm bound up in my own misery and trying very hard not to let it impact my son, and...sigh...

Sigh...