I imagine myself as a pampered queen, surrounded by young, hard-bodied men holding huge palm fronds, fanning my body, as another massages my shoulders and neck. I think I could manage to feed myself, but more young men would bring me plates of healthy foods that have been prepared for my dining pleasure.
Alas, that isn’t good enough, because Hard-Body Thing 1 isn’t fanning me enough, and I’m starting to get warm. The food is unappealing because it’s void of all sugar, or processed anything.
Completely disgusted with the lot of them, I storm off to my room and plop myself on the most comfortable bed, filled with perfect pillows. I enjoy a full night of blissful sleep.
The next morning, I enter my spa-like bathroom to prepare for the day. I shower using the best bath soaps the world has to offer. Fluffy warmed towels await, as I step out of the shower. It would be nice to have a Hard-Body Thing 25 to shave my legs, but I suppose I can do that myself as well.
In the second room, I am met by another hard-body thing that specializes in hair design and makeup. Hard-Body Thing 8 will have laid out my attire for the day, clothing of the highest fashion, made with expert quality and fabrics.
I drive myself to the city—YES, I can! The day will be spent in the city. A place where I’m free to roam, and drive with very little fear of danger. It’s up to me to follow the rules to keep myself safe, but I don’t have to worry.
Upon my return home, I would exercise, and be the perfect weight for my bone structure and height. I would be the perfect specimen of a healthy body.
Instead, I complain about going to the grocery store. I fear driving to the city. I complain about not being able to sleep–my bed is at fault, my pillows are at fault. I don’t have to complain about someone fanning me to keep me cool because we are fortunate enough to have air conditioning.
I obsessively worry about my health while I have friends who are in a fight more precarious than mine. Some have lost their lives.
There is a mother in another country, trying to keep her children safe from bombs. She has to do battle with more than the monsters under the bed. She is trying to raise a child full of confidence, while living in a constant state of fear. The real kind – not imagined what ifs.
I complain about the challenges our youngest one presents to us. I complain about the Vampires in the Basement. I complain that our daughter lives across the country.
I have my children. Somewhere, there is a mother grieving the loss of her child. My mom is one those moms–grieving the loss of two.
This is why I like blogging. I may not be an expert writer, but I have the ability to write, I have a computer and an internet connection to post my words–whether they are read by others or not—it’s not really important to me—but I thoroughly appreciate the beautiful encouragement I receive. The blogging world is full of inspiring authors, and I have learned so much through the wise words of the blogs I read.
I return to read my previous posts to rediscover what I have been thinking and experiencing. I try doing so, with a fresh outlook.
I made it to the other side of depression again, and I’m learning to tame anxiety. I will not feed my anxiety any more fuel, and I need to quit boo-hooing over the difficulties that is life. If there’s a mountain before me–then I must climb it—because I created it.
I have a choice. Depression took that choice from me, and turned my actions into habits of defeatism.
I may not be the most eloquent writer, but I have things to say. I have posts to return to, and recognize what I’m taking for granted.
I have been waiting for the day I would open the door and finally see everything in color again. I’ve peeked through the door, and have had a glimpse of the magnificent reds, yellows, blues, greens, purples, oranges….. but I was afraid, and full of doubt.
My mind has deceived me before. I live through a thought process that is misfiring, instead of through what’s in my heart. My heart is stronger than the false beliefs I hold. I simply need to learn to show the same compassion for myself, that I have for others.
I’m not berating myself, just thankful that I have reminders for when my memory fails me.
That door is open now. While it didn’t open overnight, I can now step out onto the porch. Not with just my toes, but with both feet. I will no longer wonder if this is temporary, and count down the moments until I slip back into a depressive state. I may not have a choice of whether or not that happens, but I now have a huge arsenal of weapons to fight against returning to the pit, before it becomes too late.
….that is beautiful.