The anniversary of my dad’s passing is on the horizon and the sun is setting painfully slow. I don’t cry a lot but I should.
Sometimes I’m great at just letting it pour out. Most times I blink it away. I am fearful of another bout of depression and wise enough to know anything can trigger it. I don’t know which crack in my armor will burst open and how long the repair will take and I have a fear of the unknown. I would like to think I can handle it, that I have the skills and resources to recover. But what if I’m too low to see the light? What if the cloak is too heavy? What then? What happens then? Will I have the strength to move through life long enough to survive it? Again. With depression, it takes great endurance to rise each day, go to work, run a home and be a parent. What if I can’t do it next time? What if I drop the ball, all the balls? What happens then? Fear of the unknown. It looms. It follows me. It’s always there. Every time something happens. It’s there. I am suspicious of myself. I worry if I’m just feeling quiet or if it’s phase one. I should cry but I don’t because what if once I start, I can’t stop and depression tip toes into my room at night like a monster in the closet. This is why I don’t cry a lot. This is anxiety. This is inside my head. You can’t see it on my face. You don’t hear it from my lips. It’s invisible to you.