“You think that the only truth that matters is that truth can be measured. Good intentions don’t count. What’s in your heart doesn’t count. Caring doesn’t count. But a man’s life can be measured by how many tears are shed when he dies. Just because you can’t measure them, just because you don’t wanna measure them, doesn’t mean it’s not real. And even if I’m wrong, you’re still miserable. Did you really think that your life’s purpose was to sacrifice yourself and get nothing in return? No…you believe that there is no purpose, to anything, even the lives you save you dismiss. You turn the one decent thing in your life and you taint it, strip it of all meaning. You’re miserable for nothing…I don’t know why you’d wanna live.”
– House, M.D
Sometimes, life throws me a curveball. A ball which curves so much that I miss it entirely and let it sail past my head without realising how much I really need to grab onto it, for my own sanity.
Today’s curveball was as simple as getting my period. Something I can’t control other than the usual pack of pills to stop me getting pregnant and give me a false bleed once a month.
I temporarily sunk. Only for a short time, but a short time feels like a lifetime when you’re feeling despair for no good reason. All because of some hormones flinging themselves around my body, just like they do for every other woman.
It’s frustrating to know that even if I kick depression’s arse, hormones will take control once a month. I’ve spent the day alternating between screaming at my mother over nothing and wanting to drink myself into oblivion, is that normal? I spent time staring at my walking stick, wondering if I’ll ever be brave enough to use it, and if I’ll ever need to use it every day. It was difficult getting out of bed today, it was even more difficult to reply to comments and I really, really don’t want to be writing this. I want to sleep and forget. However, I promised myself that I would write my moods down.
I should be happy, and that’s why I’m angry enough to punch a small kitten. Before depression comes anger, and I don’t want to slip into that darkness again. S stayed over at my house at the weekend. My mother was visiting my sister in Yorkshire, and her paranoia about having the house broken in to means I had to look after the place while she was away. From Friday to Sunday night, S and I spent our time wrapped up in each other – physically and emotionally – and it was amazing. We squeezed into my little single bed and slept with our legs and arms tangled together, occasionally waking and smiling at each other.
I should be happy. Instead, I want to hide away.
Stupid hormones. It’s not fair.