Hello :)

My pain is silent. Nobody, not even my family, knows how much I hurt.

I have two healthy adult daughters, and five amazing grandkids--gifts from God, every one. I have a job which requires me to interact with hundreds of people a night. I have a nice circle of friends. Overall, people consider me friendly, happy, and funny. In my job I hold people together. I mend, console, create, counsel, listen, and I laugh a lot!

And then I don't.

The moment I walk through the front door of my little cottage, with only myself for an audience, I morph into a withering, lonely, pitiful mess. The moment my car door closes, loneliness washes over like a wave. I am alone, and the face-off with my demons begins.

I live with hidden depression so debilitating, but so well-covered, that my mind is in a constant state of flux. Alone, a floodgate opens and my demons shout, your act is over for the day, truly you are alone; your life is sad; you've never amounted to anything and you never will. You will lose your job one day and everything it provides--you'll end up destitute and a burden on your children.

I try to escape the silent screaming, but am powerless to do so.

I love music; love to sing! But I can't listen to music because, while beautiful, music for me is filled with sadness. Music harkens the dark wave of cherished memories of times which will never return; of happier days when my girls were safely nestled with me in our farmhouse, sipping hot cocoa and home-schooling. Music bares open my soul to the loss of my marriage; my home, pets, garden. Simple vacations, day trips to the sea. Picking berries with my children. The loss of my precious father two years ago; the loss I will incur when my mother and best friend someday passes away--all this and more magnifies into a giant ball of loss and sadness when I hear music.

I yearn to cherish my memories and embrace middle age, but this simple act to which we should all be entitled is smothered by the facts which are my life: I am alone, I own nothing, and am relegated to working hard for the rest of my days, until someone finally places the worn out, diaper-clad shell of my body into a rest home.

I spend my non-working time at home, in my rented cottage all fixed up and decorated for my imaginary audience. I sit and look upon how cute it is, and that maybe one of my daughters or sweet grandchildren will see it this month maybe not, and I go to bed. I drench myself in an Ambien bath and drift off to sleep, where demons of loneliness and days gone by dare not follow.

I fear vacations and visits, loving the moment but dreading the inevitable farewell. So heinous are goodbyes in my mind, that I simply avoid them by hiding from that which necessitates them. Hopeful chirps of 'Grammie can we sleep over tonight?' are usually met with a heartbreaking no, honey not this time, because I fear the repercussion of The Day After--the end of the joy; the setting of the sun. Time after time after time, precious memory-making opportunities are stolen by the fear of adding to my depression arsenal.

When I sink, it is hard and fast. I land at the bottom with a loud thunk, and am powerless to right myself. I search the internet for answers--stories, insight, advice, anything to help me struggle back to the surface for a gulp of air. Sometimes I find tidbits, scriptures, anecdotes; but oftentimes I do not.

I have considered suicide many times. Each time the thought enters my mind however, I immediately think of my daughters and my grandchildren--the kind of a terrible legacy it would leave behind. The thought of betraying them in such a way is more than I can bear--more so even than the bleak, dark wave crushing me at that moment. And so I readjust myself and consign myself to the pain. It is unbearable at times.

I am so lost. But I put on a helluva show. Nobody knows my pain.
sockmama sockmama
56-60, F
Aug 17, 2014