Depression

I'm depressed. I really can't put my finger on 'why' -- I just am. Depressed. Surely, I'll continue to blog about all the reasons for my depression. But when it really comes down to it, this depression isn't really connected to a reason. It's visceral. It's simply coursing through my blood. It's inescapable. It feels as if an elephant is sitting on my chest. Like an anchor is pulling my body toward the depths of despair.

I often feel that not only am I misunderstood, but I don't understand. I don't understand people. I don't understand relationships. I don't understand my role in any of it.

I started taking Zoloft after my first child was born. I remember sitting in a counselor's office while my daughter slept in her infant car seat. I didn't want to become 'a martyr like my mother.' Somebody who uses guilt to gain love. I wanted my daughter to never feel she had to be with me or I'd fall apart (and it'd be her fault). I didn't and I don't want my children to feel that burden.

As I write this, I realize I need to get my butt back into a counselor's office. It's one thing to allow depression to ruin my life, but it's quite another when it seeps into my children's lives. Perhaps this post will serve as a resolution of sorts. A resolution to face my mental health and take responsibility for it.