I hate having to explain myself. Mostly because I suck at explaining most things. Not depression though. Odd.

Most mornings, I wake up at the bottom of a dark hole. I can’t see the sun, and I just want to lie there. R stirs, wails, and I will myself out of bed. The rest of the day is me trying to claw my way out of this hole, all I want is to see the sun. Most days, I get there. I exercise, and I feel better. I lay on the floor with R and play and laugh, I see the light come over the edge of the hole. Most days, I go to bed, exhausted, but out of the hole, soaking up the sun. Most days.

Then, there are the days nothing I do gets me even close to the light. The days I put R in his jumper more often, or nap when he naps. The days I don’t comb my hair, or I stay in pajamas til 4pm. Then I realize it’s time to cook dinner, and that is the only thing that makes me start to climb the sides of the hole I’m in. Cooking is my happy place. I put R in his high chair, put some toys on the tray for him to play with, and wheel him into the kitchen with me. I play the Pandora station he likes, and talk to him about what I’m doing. He smiles his lovely gummy smile at me, and all is good.

All is peaceful.

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