Wednesday, June 29, 2011

When Depression Attacks

It did this morning. It freaking attacked. Or rather the aftermath did.

I was a crying mess, sorting through boxes and bins in the attic and basement, raging at myself and this effed up brain of mine.

I was full of self hatred, self pity, self loathing.

I was convinced I would never be well enough to remember a thing, function as a responsible parent/human/woman/member of society.

It appeared that I'd given away/lost all of Violet, Sarah and John's special clothing from when they were babies. All of those outfits you keep just because they look so cute and adorable in them. The coming home from the hospital outfit. All the clothes that my mom made for them. The sweet little dreses and matching hats. The old man jammies that matched my Grandfathers, who John never met.  The First Birthday outfit. First time in church. First time they rolled over. Spit up. Whatever. All those outfits that made your heart melt and still make it swell when you see the pictures.

[caption id="attachment_992" align="aligncenter" width="224" caption="My mom made this. "][/caption]

And I've been looking for them for months. Months. They could have been in one of the kids' closets, but those all got cleaned out with the painting. So today I was in the attic, for the second time. I found clothing for John in the next three sizes. Clothing that has been through two boys and handed down to me. That made me start to bawl. Because evidently I can keep clothes that are useful and great for play, but the ones that actually mean something? The ones that I want? The ones that hold a special place in my heart and cause me to recall fond memories? Yeah. I can't keep those.

My sister in law, Kerry, stopped over and talked me down. Reminded me that I was probably in a traumatic place when I was putting all of that away. And maybe I wasn't the one to misplace it or send it to Good Will. Maybe it wasn't my mistake.

Yeah, right.

I've given away, thrown away, donated, "organized" away so much in an effort to fix myself. In an effort to cure my depression. I knew exactly what had happened.

She left and I went to the basement, where the clothes were surely not. It is damp there, so who in their right mind would put the special clothing there?

Right. 'Who in their right mind,' indeed.

That would be me.

[caption id="attachment_993" align="alignleft" width="224" caption="She made this, too. Look at that hat!"][/caption]

So I ended the morning as I began it. Sobbing and talking to God.

Have I mentioned how much depression screws with your head?  Even after you consider yourself to be recovered. Well medicated. Well therap-ied.

Consider this a PSA.

[caption id="attachment_994" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Some of my faves from John. A little Polo onesie *dies*"][/caption]