This time tomorrow I hope to be sitting on this beach. I couldn’t stand the thought of another weekend at home. Dark thoughts were starting to take over, and my little stockpile of pills (originally collected for medical purposes) was pulling at me again. I know this isn’t a good space to be in, so I’m going away. I’ve shuffled my work days so I have five days off, and five days away (or almost five days, once you factor in the travel time).
I feel naughty doing this, and I’m starting to feel guilty. I can hear my mother clenching her teeth not to say anything, but really, I can just hear the “what are you doing that for?” I know I shouldn’t feel guilty, or naughty, but when you come from a dysfunctional family where co-dependency is the norm, it’s hard not to.
The Wonder Therapist said: “I think it’s great you’re going away. I’m not going to tell you not to go. How would it be if I said – sit around the house for three days, don’t talk to anyone, don’t do anything, don’t get any sunshine, eat crap food… who wouldn’t be depressed?”
Good point, but one that’s sometimes hard to remember.
I don’t even want to do anything in particular while I’m away. Just walk on the beach, feel the sand between my toes, and the waves lapping at my feet. May be get a massage. May be walk to the lighthouse. Just not be at home where the darkness is growing thicker by the day.
So, I’m away from tomorrow until Tuesday, when the Wonder Therapist flies out and I see the Back Up Therapist again. Sigh.