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What's the Worst That Could Happen?
What's the worst that could happen if I revealed my sadness further? And basically admitted that the mood from my last blog-entry, where I became happy again, was just an interlude? What's the worst that could happen if I said I've been feeling depressed for some time?
I can hear my mother now: "Why tell the world?"
"Mom, I tried writing it by hand in a journal and I got no relief."
I'm not really even sure how this depression became sticky. I've had plenty of sad moments across my life-span so far, but this moment has stretched. Was it from since we left for India? Since we got back? Since my mom had her car accident and convalescence two Marches ago? Since I saw "Snow Cake" the other night? Since my friend Susan interviewed me earlier in the week, anonymously, for her class, about how adults make changes, and about a change I was unable to make over the past two years, and which I'd wanted to, and how not being able to made me feel?
What's the worst that could happen? What's the worst that could happen if I didn't tell you?
The worst that could happen has been happening:
I've been too ashamed of my depression to blog, since I didn't think I could blog authentically without acknowledging it. The Lady Liberty bobble-doll on the shelf above my desk is smiling and nodding her head in approval at my honesty.
Why couldn't I go to the pumpkin-lighting at the Iris Gardens with Pat this evening? Why couldn't I have the weekend off instead of having to write a literature review for school? Why can't school be over? What will I do without the stimulation I get from there once I graduate?
Why can't I sleep better? Why is my pre-menstrual time so dark, so often? Why doesn't expressing my gratitude pull me out of my mood? Why isn't swimming helping? Why do I feel so vulnerable, describing all of this? Why does it give me a bit of relief at the same time?
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