Unfit to write

Why do I think everything I do is wrong? Because it is. And there is no hope. All my choices are wrong. I feel I don’t deserve to live, but I’m alive. Thanks God surrounded by people who love me. But I have no right to make them miserable with my sad existence. And I feel guilty for that.

I would like to live hidden from everybody. That way I wouldn’t hurt others especially the ones I love. But I can’t. The only way would be disappearing. I already had to disappear from work. I couldn’t keep my job being so trapped in this cave of depression. I’m useless.

But I can’t disappear from life. Sometimes I would like to. I get anxious and I hurt myself. Is the only way I can calm down. That scares me a lot. I pray to God every day. That keeps me alive. Gives me strength. And I sure need that strength to face each day. I feel like chained in a dark cell. Unable to move. Unable to escape.

It came unnoticed as a burglar and step by step stole my entire life. I was a successful woman at work and at home. I had a lot of problems, that’s true, but who doesn’t? Too much work for me to handle. I’m sure it was my fault. Suddenly I felt weak and useless because I couldn’t deal with, until then, ordinary things. One day I simply crashed. I thought I was extremely tired, but the doctor told me it was a depression I have suffered for a long time without noticing it. I refused to believe it at the beginning.  That couldn’t be happening to me.  That was not an illness. I was simply tired, so tired… It took me a long time to convince myself that I was sick, very sick.

I continued working for fourteen years in a very demanding environment with depression under medical treatment. It was a nightmare I don’t want to remember. I loved my job and I enjoyed to see it done as perfectly as possible. But it was too much. I was crying all the time, hurting myself secretly,  gaining and losing weight without control, losing strength. Finally, after several hospitalizations, I had to quit. Job plus illness was a combination that was destroying me. It was a shock. I’m still under the effects. Sad, disoriented, insecure.

At least now I know who are my real friends. the ones who are still with me after all this ordeal. I’m so grateful to them. And of course to my family, always so supportive in the worst moments.

Although I still chained in my dark cell, I’m peering to the outside world through the little window of my blogs. They say depression triggers creativity. Inspires writers and artists. If that’s true I would be writing lots of wonderful stories. But something is wrong here like everything about me. Either depression doesn’t inspire writers or I’m not writer at all.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Fit to Write.