There are good days, there are bad days. I’d decided in my head that today should be a good one. I checked out the weather forecast, rearranged my day off work to make the most of a fine spell, dreamed of hills I might stomp over, and photographs I might take, folded maps and packed a bag ready to seize the day. I even knew how much better I’d feel at the end of such a day: physically tired, but mentally refreshed. As plans go, it was a pretty damn good one, if I say so myself.
Only depression doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to pick and choose the good days; planning doesn’t work any more. When I woke up, today was a bad day. No reason, it just was so. The sun shone brightly through the gap between my curtains, the birds sang invitingly of fresh green Spring… and I just wanted to stay under my duvet and hurt.
This is where being a grown-up sucks. I prised myself out from under the duvet, drank All The Coffee, drove the kids to school, sourced 4 safety pins (child 1’s urgent and essential need du jour), unearthed two tombola prizes from the Drawer of Unwanted Gifts, and found (child 3’s) Coat That Was Lost. It wasn’t a bad impersonation of maternal coping, if you ignore the cracks (hair brushing, smiling, ability to feign any interest whatsoever in children’s day…)
And now I have a day off to myself, which is bad, and two days of work ahead, which may or may not be worse, who knows?
I hate all this.