I helped my daughter get dressed this morning, and it was like she was looking at me and talking to me through a muddy window. Muted.
I was able to muster enough animation to lose my patience with her when she was doing normal (annoying, but normal) 4 year old stuff, then I went back behind the dirty glass.
I smiled and waved the kids off to nursery, then went around the house tidying up and getting ready. Heavy. Sad. Going through the motions.
I’m experienced enough now to recognise bouts of generalised anxiety and depression for what they are. An attack on my brain. A temporary loss of me. Not me.
That does not mean they suck less. It just means that somewhere in the back of my foggy mind there’s a notion that what I’m experiencing is an illness that I’ll hopefully recover from. The hard part is not feeling in control of when and how I’ll recover. Like any illness, I guess.
Depression and anxiety reframe what might usually seem ordinary issues into exhausting insurmountable obstacles.
My life isn’t any different than it was last week. I basically still have the same problems and the same re-generating To Do list which is not dissimilar to anyone else at my stage of life. Things could be better, and things could be a lot worse.
But this week, what’s different is my brain. My brain has re wired itself this week so that even though it’s just those same problems and that same To Do list floating around, I have less tools to cope.
“I’m never gonna get everything done and it’s overwhelming” “I’m a shit mother and a shit wife” “What’s the point when everything’s shit anyway?”
Except everything is not shit. Some things are. A lot of things aren’t. Life hasn’t changed. My brain attack has just changed my perception of it. Muddied the windows.
I’m gonna work on getting them clean again but until then I’ll keep reminding myself these times don’t define me. Being susceptible to brain attacks don’t define me.
They don’t define you, either ❤