I thought for sure I had it all together this year. If you look at my past Christmas time posts, you will see holidays have not been a good time for me for several years, but this year I thought everything was hunkey-dorey.
I willingly participated in looking for a tree, I sang while decorating the house with little ornaments here and there, I even bought all the ingredients to make the goodies I used to make back before depression became a major issue in my life.
Maybe it was still progress that I actually got into it beforehand, regardless of the monster who woke Christmas morning as me? I mean, in the past few years I haven’t gotten into it at all…none…nada.
I cannot put my finger on any one thing yesterday. I was not thinking about any of the sad stuff. I was reminding myself how joyous a time this is. I’ve not been watching the news now for a couple of weeks (periodically I have to stop watching and reading the news because of my tendency toward gloom and doom when the chemicals in my brain are misbehaving). I did not have any blown up expectations of the day (I don’t think I did anyway), but, somehow the DAY ITSELF came along and just wiped me right off my feet.
Uninvited tears were the menu for the day. No appetite for the wonderful Christmas cooking Great Husband had prepared (but yes I forced it down and acted happy about it). I slept a lot, feeling worse every time I awakened.
I am okay this morning, back at work. The tears won’t stop, but so far I have been successful at keeping them hidden.
I’m trying really hard not to let this bother me. I know my illness comes and goes without any kind of warning. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason as to when it will rear its ugly head, or why or for how long.
I am thankful suicide never once entered my mind. Not one time. That in itself is a blessing for Christmas.