Oh, I am tired. Grey and shaky and bleargh with exhaustion. Some of this is no doubt the slightly anaemic, intestinally disgruntled, narcotic-withdrawal left-overs of the departing period, which is, yes, departing (you are, aren’t you? Departing? Yes? Going? Safe to board my husband again? Please?). But most of it is dear old boring old same old depression. Again. And not unexpectedly.
Every time I start to feel better, more like myself, less overwhelmed by work and family and, oh, I don’t know, getting out of bed in the morning, I get pregnant again, and miscarry again, and here I am again. Angry and anxious and depressed (really quite depressed. We’ve got books containing this sort of thing at work, and I spent my tea-break working out I was anywhere from moderately to severely depressed depending on how well-written the questionnaire was).
It’s not actually depression, endogenous depression, at all, though, is it? ‘Depression’ books tend to be all about working out why and how this dreadful cloud mysteriously fell on you, blighting your life, on the understanding that once you’ve worked it out, you’ll be able to sort it out. Whereas I know exactly why I feel like hell and I’m already doing all I can about it. When shitty things happen to people, they are allowed to collapse and spend some time lying about on the carpet in pieces.
They are, but I’m not. I won’t really allow myself to lie on the carpet in pieces. Everytime I get down there, I feel terribly selfconscious and then get quickly back up again before anyone falls over me. ‘I’m fine!’ I chirp, as I sweep all my shards up in a dustpan, ‘Just fine! A bit tired! Could do with a coffee! Right-oh, let’s get on with something!’
And then I find myself dragging myself through the rest of the week like a wounded snake (ooh, she’s quoting Pope. Get her), too tired to think, too tired to read, or write, or knit, or have a civilised conversation with my husband.
I don’t know what I need or even want that’ll get me out of this Knackered Pit. It’ll go away by itself in a few months, I suppose, as it has done before, just in time to freshen up and resharpen the stakes at the bottom for my next great tumble into it (did that sound hopeless and despairing? Good, I meant it to). It’s just, I am so, well, bored of spending so much time being tired and sad and angry.
And other people are bored of me being like this too. Or, I am worried that they are. Or that they will be, if I don’t put on a brave face. Or, that, like my mother, they think I have no business being this miserable (because we all know misery is like the measles: after the first go or two, you’re immune, see?). I’m getting a pervasive feeling of ‘seriously, not this again? Aren’t you over this?’ from the whole bloody Universe, and I can’t tell if it’s just me, overflowing with neurotic paranoia, or if people really are feeling like this about me.
At work, meanwhile, the fact I am ‘ill’ so often, and come back from these ‘ill’ days still in pain and not exactly functional, and I keep going to the doctor or to hospital, is getting increasingly noticed, and people are beginning to do hinty questions – the whole ‘ooh, are you under the weather again?’ *eyebrows raised and waggling expectantly*. I just say ‘yes,’ to this. If anyone grows a pair and asks me directly what the effin’ eff is going on, I shall tell them. At length. With graphic descriptions. And I shall give them a link to a site I found (and am politely not linking here) which had pictures of surgeries being done for endometriosis and adenomyosis, and which was terrifying and grotesque and had me distinctly Not On Speaking Terms with my uterus for days.