Irony is evil

So about two days after my last post where I so happily posted my intention to wean down my dose of antidepressants, I started feeling the gloom. I guess I had been ignoring the signs. I didn't want it to be true and I was doing my best to believe the story that with my last child born and this year just ticking over, that my hope would be fulfilled and that I could pretend that I could just get on with living.

But no. The gloom has not lifted. My anxiety is back. I am feeling under an overwhelming, thick blanket of self loathing and sadness. I am trying, I really am. To kick that damn blanket off. But it keeps creeping back. I hear myself speaking negatively, I have those unbidden, horrible thoughts about myself and that I just can't do it. That it is all too much and that I am the broken bit of the puzzle which is stopping the picture being beautiful.

Today I cried with my hubby. It felt good to cry and be angry that we are back here again. And to talk about "living with depression" in a very long term sense. No magic wand.

So the blanket has lifted a little. I feel okay tonight. I hope for deep and refreshing sleep. And on Monday I will go to the doctor and say "You know that plan to cut back..." And I will choose more consciously to do what I know I need to do to head once again towards wellness. But I am angry and sad and angry, that as a few things have happened, and I have had some stress, and I have eaten crap food, and not exercised enough, and not been more mindful, that my mind has once again slipped down the rabbit hole. And I will have to scrabble back out again.

There is so much shame in that. Cause unlike a broken leg, where I could point to a cast and show you the xray and point and say "See, here. It's broken"... instead it is me who is broken and faulty.

Depression is shit.