The bad fight

Punch drunk I reel, stagger, desperately try to regain my footing. I’ve been fighting for a while now, I’m not sure how long. The impact of previous blows smart still as more come in, buffeting me from one side to the other. Somewhere in the distance is rest and balance, they seem far off, hazy, not quite real. If only this were all real, if this were some physical illness – what a terrible thing to wish on oneself – rather than the silent, invisible fight against the Black Dog and Rabid Wolf tag team who personify my depression and anxiety. Being able to pass for someone who’s not completely fucked in the head is just another burden, a heavy sack of responsibility that I can’t put down. I don’t deserve to share the load with those who care about me and they don’t deserve to take the strain. I cast about for the solidity of reason, searching for causes and explanations – if only I hadn’t done this, perhaps if I had done that I wouldn’t be in this place again? Reason however is a mirage and as I frantically surge towards it it becomes another mockery, another defeat. I don’t want to fight any more. I want to give in, to give up and lie down and die. I punch myself repeatedly in the head, or at least I would if only I had the nerve. The urge to hurt myself becomes another whip to torment myself with, the self-judgement of others’ judgement bearing down and suffocating me. I let my child pull my hair, she laughs, there’s no malice there. I want to say “I’m sorry darling, sometimes Mommy feels so sad and wants to hurt herself”. I hate that in the future she’s likely to have to endure the fallout of my battles. I feel guilty for hoping that her sweet kind nature might be something I can lean on in future, that after a fight she’ll bathe my wounds and hold me while I cry. She deserves better than that. This is the way things are.

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