If You Are Reading, You Are Still Breathing

A rock, a dead flower, an object, apathetic and empty-souled. Mind is whispering like a broken record, broken record, broken, to pieces.

This is how I feel. I could call it "depression" but I prefer to call it the "I just can't be bothered" feeling. I prefer to call it the "I don't care" feeling. I prefer to call it the "I want to be me again" feeling.

It sucks, big time. It sucks so much that it actually sucks your life away. It is a soul-vacuuming process, that's what it is. Let's "break the stigma," my ass. Plenty of stigma to share. And what a shame.

It just hurts so much when you feel misunderstood. It hurts so much when your family tells you, "But how can you be depressed being the mummy of such a cutie?" Thanks, I do feel a lot better now. NOT. Don't get me wrong, I love my two-year-old son more than my own life and I would do ANYTHING for him, but I still have depression and I cannot help it.

Ha, but wait for the best thing yet, ANXIETY. Imagine water running down from a mountain. What a lovely picture, peaceful. The sound of a nightingale singing in a summer night, the relaxed breathing of my baby boy when he is fast asleep at 2 in the morning, my big fat maine coon cat after smelling catnip. Anxiety is the antipode, the opposite, the never switching off mind buzzing, the comfort eating by tons, the looking at the ceiling when I cannot sleep at night. Anxiety is Freddy Krueger but rather than in your sleep, when you are awake. Anxiety is the devil's advocate.

Why am I depressed? I wish I knew. One thing a professional told me recently is that I probably have a low self-esteem because my father was an alcoholic and I witnessed a lot of drunken arguments at home from a young age. Okay. That explains my need to please people, my need to have too-high standards, and the need to bully myself if I am not perfect and I don't achieve what I challenge myself to do.

I remember being pregnant to the point of feeling like a whale about to explode when I was almost due. I was having my mum and my dad staying with me in my house during that time. My dad was a pig—a pig towards my mum and towards everyone, really. How could she put up with him for almost 50 years?

Blimey.

We knew he had cheated on her (my dad is 86-years-old, mind) with a prostitute. I am really not sure (nor I want to know) what he had been up to with this "mujer mala," knowing how old he is and also knowing that he is pissed 16 hours out of 24.

Anyway, it REALLY is not nice to listen to your dad saying to your mum that if she does not "give him" what he needs then she should not blame him for "looking for it elsewhere." WHAT A PIG SHIT he was—still is.

It is not nice either to see your dad up to his eyeballs in alcohol whilst attempting to go out the front door, and then attempting to lock the door. The bit that is the least nice is when you see your dad falling on his back and almost hitting his head on the cement-built door steps. OUCH.

I was pregnant and in distress, for Pete's sake. He did not give a shit about us; he never had.

To be continued...