That was last week at the sonar place. Today, 9 days later, was the first time I could get to see my doctor. 9 painful days of wondering, of what iffing, of googling the damn things trying to figure out if I would make it through winter. So many conflicting opinions - I hate the internet, really. I was just about in stage 4 cancer by the time I walked into the doc's reception area this morning.
She did put my mind at ease. "It's not so bad," she explained, gently. "These are your options..." I burst into tears.
What an idiot. Felt like that one moment became a point of concentration for years worth of supressed agonisings, self-searching, and, yes, the big D.
I've known all my life really that I suffer depression. Never had it properly addressed though. Different reasons at different times in my life. When it first came out, my family was in the midst of financial collapse. My parents were barely able to keep their own heads above water, let alone understand the impact of that turbulent time on their 12 year old daughter. And from there on, I just got swept along in the stream of life trying desperately to be a floater, not a sinker.
In university I approached a doctor friend for help. He laughed at me and said I could choose to overcome my anxiety.
Well. I first felt hurt that he hadn't helped me, but after a while I persuaded myself that I could be bigger than what I was feeling. So on I floated. Through life. Through marriage. Through two pregnancies. A small business of my own. Until today.
Today somebody saw through my celophane confidence. Somebody realised my inability to make myself happy. Somebody saw my great sadness. And this is where the bus stops.
The road leading into the future for me is signposted along the way with anti-depressants and oestrogens, and I for one am feeling a lot lighter than I have for a long, long time.
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