Ask me

Sometimes I am almost desperate for someone to ask me how I'm doing ... and really mean it.

And other times I'm scared someone might actually do that.

It's been a long time since I've felt this low, for this long. Probably 16 years...when I dealt with postpartum depression after having Quent. Part of me wants to seek help; part of me wants to just push through it, knowing - or maybe just hoping - it will eventually get better. But last time, I knew it was all chemical. I knew it wasn't about what was actually going on in my life, because my life was pretty great. And now it's different. Now, I have real reasons to feel the way I do. And I'm coping; I'm getting through. I am presenting a pretty normal face to the rest of the world. Mostly.

I have withdrawn from my friends, and I don't even know if they've noticed. I seem to be able to really connect only with my children, and the comfort and safety of that is what's keeping me afloat (even if their problems are a major part of why I am feeling this way).

I know that I can choose not to be subject to my emotions, but when I can't, it's a bigger problem. But I don't know if I can or want to do the things that might fix it.