The good days make the bad ones worse

I’ve had a couple of good days lately. I can feel my sense of humour lurking beneath and propping up my frustration; I can be in the middle of a meltdown moment but have comfort in surety that ‘this too shall pass’; I can see and acknowledge  little wins and can prioritise my daily tasks in a healthy way. Good days.

Not great, but hey, it’s better than bad so I’ll take it, with gratitude. 

Problem is I’m finding that the good days I have give me hope, and then the bad days return and it’s like a sucker punch right on my solar plexus. It rocks me. I feel robbed, defeated, scared, sad. It’s like reaching the top of the staircase only to realise you’re in one of those M.C. Escher illustrations and what you thought was progress is suddenly not. Sigh. 

Take today….my 7mo is sick and clingy. My 2.5yo is wanting attention. My house is not clean.  My attempt at cornbread produced a big, solid, crunchy corn biscuit. My fifo husband is home but has taken himself to the gym so it’s me on duty, alone, again. 

Yet I’m fine. I am balanced, calm, patient, content. I’m normal. It gives me hope that I’m beating this depressive time. 

I feel relief.

Then a bad day hits, and another. Three, five in a row. And I feel dread. What I’m doing isn’t working. I’m not healing. I can’t beat this. Maybe misery is my new normal….the thoughts swirl, bringing me down, and are so, so hard to counter.

I need this reminder then. That there will be good days. That maybe I do need more help to beat this, but that is ok. That there is an alternative ‘normal’, and that it’s a really nice place to be, and I should do whatever needs to be done to get back there.

To not view my good days as a cruel reminder of what could be, but rather as a golden promise of what will be, my normal, soon. 

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