Just writing this post is going to be going outside my comfort zone, because I'm about to uncover my windows.
Today I went to see a therapist about my "depression." It feels like an excuse, to even say I'm depressed. Like a cop-out on life. It's embarrassing and uncomfortable to speak with someone about my "problems." I don't really even have problems, which really is the problem. I mean, the fact that I'm feeling down with no real reason to feel that way, that's the problem.
I don't like the idea of someone analyzing me, though. What conclusion will they reach about my motivations and overall character? Am I worried they'll find something deeply, unfixably wrong with me?
My stomach was in knots right before my appointment, like I was on my way to a really big job interview. Was I nervous because I wanted so badly to be liked? Probably.
Anyway, the appointment went well enough. Although I feel I wasn't exactly honest with the therapist. I answered her questions, but I know I didn't answer them as fully as I could have. I know the overall picture I painted was of a busy, working mother who was trying to juggle a lot on her plate and doing the best she could. I didn't discuss how I can't get out of bed in the morning. How I find it so difficult to take care of my kids. How I can't talk to my teenagers or take the time to play with my 6 year old. How I'd rather stick everyone in the playroom and then hide in my bedroom to read than interact with my family. How I dread my work so much that sometimes I wish something really bad would happen to me so that I physically couldn't work, even though I know I would totally regret that. That's the reality, but I just let her believe I was the kind of mother and wife I want to be; not what I actually am.