I made it back to work today. Dragging my depressed body out of bed this morning was perhaps the hardest thing I've had to do in the last six months. And that includes the knee surgery and physical therapy that followed.
I knew all the arguments for getting out of bed and getting myself dressed. "Going to work gives you purpose!" "Normal routines will help you feel normal!" "Shower because no one wants to smell you!" And yet I still was on the verge of tears while brushing my hair. And while eating breakfast. And while trying to find my socks. But it was my husband's kiss that almost undid me. He kissed me goodbye and said "You'll be fine. Call me if you need me" and I almost broke down. All I could do was nod and rush out the door before I lost it. He has that affect on me. When I feel like this, I can be coping just fine, holding my shit together, and all he has to do is ask what's wrong and I lose it. And I mean lose it. The shit hit-eth the fan-eth and all I can do is curl into his arms while he tells me it's alright. He's my hero and my security blanket. Most days I wish I could fold him up and keep him in my pocket as I go about my daily tasks.
But today I've made it 8 hours without crying. So far, so good.
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