Things have been hard lately. The pit has been lurking for a while, following me around corners, cutting off my path, growing and growing until I felt like I was on a island in the center, unable to jump across to solid ground. So, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I stumbled into it this last week, and hit bottom with a dull thud.
I saw this picture of the sink hole in Guatemala a few weeks ago, and thought “Oh yes, I know you.” If you look closely, you’ll see me at the bottom, tugging on the rope.
It’s hard for me to use this space to describe how this feels. I’m not sure if it’s because writing it here makes it more ‘real’ or because I expect my children to read this all some day, as a sort of babybook of their early years. But the truth is, I’m not okay. I’m angry, I’m anxious, I’m suffocating under the weight of the guilt of not being enough. A bad day here or there has slowly shifted to a good day here or there, and I don’t want to feel like this. I wrote before that I wouldn’t waste another year of our lives denying that depression had found me, so I’m not. I’m trying to own it, make peace with it, and find a way to crawl out of it.
I’m grabbing the rope. Let’s hope it is tied to something solid at the top.