Last year, for a little while, I attended counselling sessions . A compulsory part of each of these was filling out a questionnaire detailing how my anxiety and depression had been lately. It could be quite a thought-provoking exercise and it helped me think more deeply about certain feelings and thoughts. A part of the questionnaire asked about thoughts of suicide or harming myself, how frequently I’d had them, and what had stopped me committing suicide. My answer to this part was always the same: I wouldn’t kill myself because I knew it would affect my family, and I felt I had responsibilities towards them.

In my lowest moments, I feel trapped and I find myself wanting rid of my responsibility to my children. I wish I could do what I want when I want, that I could sleep until I was well rested, that I could sometimes be reckless and irresponsible and act like the young woman I am. But I can’t. Not just because it would be unfair to my husband if I were to forsake all responsibility, but because I couldn’t live with myself if I did. I love my children. They are one of the best things in my life. Even the harsh and obscuring fog of depression and anxiety can’t totally erase my knowledge of that.

Sometimes I think people would be better off without me. I feel like I’m a burden, high-maintenance. But the low feelings do pass. The panic does fade. I’ve seen a quote somewhere that says “no feeling is final”, and it’s true. However dark the night, the sun will always rise. Let’s live for the moment when it does.


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