And essentially I find I am alone. It’s a difficult thing, depression, and something that has been with me for a good part of my life. I don’t talk about it much, or write about it, because it’s just there. Sometimes it’s not.
My mother understands the concept of depression, but doesn’t quite “get” it. She knows I had awful night terrors as a child but cannot relate to the vague, underlying sadness I have that simply will not go away, despite being told:
“For God’s sake cheer up Samantha!”
My partner knows I have depression, but doesn’t quite understand its shifting nature, how I can be fine one day and then “down” the next and I really just want to be left alone until the spasm passes.
My older son, to be honest, is a source of sadness and pain, but his is not a story to be told here. Suffice it to say, I feel he’s lost his way and is taking help from all the wrong quarters.
Alex is doing very well – his school years were not kind to him and although he coped well at college and achieved his goals, university has really become his element. I am so pleased for him – how could I not be – he’s made it.
I don’t feel like it’s “empty nest” syndrome, not at all, not with four cats and everything else. Just that this is where I begin again. With me. Just me.
And set my paper boat afloat again on the River of Life.