In which a lot is not well

“All is well and all will be well”

Or not.

In March a particularly ugly strain of depression entrenched itself in my head.

I got help.

Perhaps I should say I am receiving help. “Got help” implies the need for help is over. That is far from the case. I am still a distressed damsel. Not in distress. Were I in distress there would be a hope of a prince to save me. Distressed, as faux antique leather couches and designer jeans. Or distressing, leaving chaos in my wake.

That sounds like something out of The Handmaid’s Tale novel. Chair. Flesh. Mayday. M’aidez.

Not the subject at hand.

I am in therapy. I am on medication. I am trying to cope as my daughter’s struggles with her emotions and coping skills become more difficult for both of us.

I just want to know when being excluded and unremembered stops hurting, because it still does at 37.

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