It is five days until Christmas and I am still in hospital struggling with depression. I have been here for over a month now. I had expected to be here for a weekend.
It’s eight thirty and Wonder Girl is sleeping in her cot, I’m listening to the ward wake up. Lying on my hospital bed I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself.
Christmas is usually my favourite time of year. Being part elf and a big fan of all things glittery it is the season for me. My children are at home now and school is broken up. I am tormenting myself with all the crafts and outings I would normally have planned for this time of year. It breaks my heart that I am (probably the depression talking now) ruining Christmas.
I am going home for visits and overnight stays and all being well will be at home for Christmas. My fear at the moment is whether that’s in everyone’s best interests. I went home to put up the Christmas tree last weekend and wasn’t in a good place. I put on a brave face (and some Christmas music) and tried to have fun for the boys. The breaking of my eldest’s precious first Christmas decoration (with his name and date on) broke my heart. My son cheering me up with “don’t worry mom we can buy another” broke it even more.
I have resisted blogging just how hard it is at the moment. Today I needed to offload, and writing for me is so cathartic.
I saw my doctor yesterday and they have decided to increase my antidepressant. I am getting as much rest as possible, preserving my energy so I can get on my festive mojo for my family at the weekend. So here’s hoping, come Christmas eve I’ll be feeling the joy as I play Santa and eat mince pies.