I am writing in this black background from a very black place. Major depression. The kind that puts me in bed for weeks on end. I was still there earlier today. Until my husband came to get me to take me to my psychologist since I would not drive myself. That is a place where the suicide likes to play. In the car.

My psychologist suggested that I write, as I may have a gift there and my suffering and survival thereof may be a comfort to, God forbid, someone else who is where I am or has been there. There is not a pretty place. There says that I suck as a wife and mother for being in bed all the time and there also says that maybe some days just breathing through one more day may be enough success not to be a failure. That is the point that I am at right now.
Still breathing, thank God.

I don’t mean to be obsessed with suicide, but when it gets really dark, that is something I think about. I have known 3 people in some twenty years around 12 step programs who have killed themselves. And it always breaks my heart a little and scares me alot. As if it has a life of its own that can take mine.

The depression I know is really bad all by itself. By that, I mean that things in my life could be fine-roof over my head, the love of my husband and daughter, 2 dogs in the yard. But I feel like there is no hope. Right this minute, I am struggling. To write. To communicate. To be.

I am frightened, upset. My husband is about to have a 10% pay cut and I am freaking out.
I can’t wear most of my clothes because I have gained weight and my daughter needs new clothes. In my last major depression at the end of last year, I began to overspend. Now, we have nine maxed out credit cards. And when the paycut hits, they won’t be getting paid, which I am dreading beause it is my fault.