A Broken Piece

Sometimes I think I am broken.
“It’s okay,” he said, “You’re depressed.”
 
Depressed.
I guess I didn’t even realize that’s what I was.  And the statement, so poignant, so pointed, so exact, makes everything seem so much more exasperating and exhausting.  “Try to say something positive,” I think to myself, “Be active, go do something…”
Why is everything so much harder now?  So much heavier?  More stagnant and unchanging, yet everything seems to require more thought.  I want to cry but do not know why.  I want to be happy so I can make my husband happy, but I’m not sure what I’m missing.  And maybe nothing is missing at all, maybe it’s just me, and maybe, at some point on this special needs mothering journey, something broke inside and it can’t be fixed.
 
There are good days… days I wake up and feel good about life.  There are days I feel positive and happy… and those days normally are because my husband is by my side.  On the days he works, it’s like I have no one here to notice when I’m feeling sad or down or self-conscious, and then I can just dive into this awful wormhole of sad feelings without anybody there to “check” me.
And I just feel so tired all the time… the coffee, the caffeine, it doesn’t solve the problem, and no matter how much sleep I get, I never seem satisfied.  And as I sit here, watching my daughter play, with the sun creeping in from the backyard, I want to know why I can’t just find the joy in this moment?
Why am I broken?
 
Days like today mean I need my bible.  Days like today lead me to my knees.  And I suppose I should be grateful for that.  God is trying to save my soul, and the devil keeps pulling on that broken part, reminding me of the hard things.
 
And sometimes I just have to write it all out, because then maybe it’ll give my poor heart a break… give my soul some time to breathe.  If I sit here and type everything I feel, the dark and the sad and the anger… maybe then I can start to fix the broken pieces of me.
 
Because I don’t want to be depressed.

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