Walking Depression

My depression comes and goes in waves. Sometimes it lasts for three days, sometimes it lasts for three months. It can become severe and I spend days laying in bed. Sometimes I end up at the hospital. But sometimes I have what I call "walking depression". It's the kind of depression that can be concealed easily. I feel like I'm dying inside but I'm still able to run errands, socialize and pretend like I'm in a good mood.
It's completely exhausting. I crave a nap halfway through the day because I have been demanding so much out of myself. Even though I can be productive doesn't mean I want to. I would rather sit in sweat pants on the couch. Nothing feels genuine, the world is faded and grey.
It can go undetected, even by the person that has it. Me, the queen of depression, and I just realized that I have been depressed for about nine months. I knew something was off, I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I knew I wasn't depressed because I wasn't suicidal or laying in bed, but in reality, I am depressed. I have been napping every afternoon and sleeping for 8-10 hours a night. I have what is called "Anhedonia" which is the inability to be satisfied/feel pleasure. So no activities satisfy me, no books, tv shows, everything. I could find a hundred dollars on the ground and still feel hum drum. It's like being hungry but never being able to feel full. So I've grown to hate free time. I've bawled my eyes out when I have a block of time with no plans and no projects to work on. I am terrified of the days when the house is already clean and there is no work to do. I have free time with nothing to satisfy me. I'll try reading, gardening, watching a movie. The only thing that quenches my thirst is writing, and that's only occasionally. And it's difficult to do with a hyper four year old bouncing around.
But I've realized I'm depressed, and I have been for a while. This gives me some relief because I know now that my excruciating boredom is a result of depression, not because I suck at life.

Parenting from bed

I have struggled with my mental health since the on-set of puberty. Over time, it has only gotten worse. What started out as a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder ballooned into Bipolar and has now settled on Schizoaffective-Bipolar along with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and I suspect Panic Disorder. Needless to say, I struggle to make it through the day most days. I take five medications a day and they still only blunt the symptoms instead of taking them completely away. I struggle to get up, I struggle to clean, I struggle with basic hygiene and I struggle to stay sane. And my sanity is tested on a daily basis because I have three children.

I have bad days. Very bad days. Days that are so bad that my parents scoop my children up and keep them for days at a time because I am unable to get out of bed for days at a time. It’s a good bought of depression if I don’t end up at the psychiatric hospital. A simple errand throws me into a panic attack and an unexpected knock on the door sends me into crisis mode. My panic attacks are uncontrollable seizure like events where I lose control of my body and sometimes pull out my own hair. Some days, just sitting up in bed is an accomplishment.

I push myself out of bed, off the couch, because my kids need me. Every day I push as hard as I can to give all that I can to my children. But some days, I just can’t. I just can’t.

Those are my worst days. I retire to the bed, collapsing on the mattress, wrapping myself in a blanket cocoon. I lose the ability to speak full sentences. I don’t sleep, I just lay there for hours and hours, staring at the wall. It is impossible to parent in that state of mind so usually my husband takes over, or my parents come get the kids for a few days while I recover.

My 9-year-old recently asked why I spend so much time in bed. It broke my heart. I was kind of hoping that she wouldn’t notice, but she did. I explained that mommy has a brain sickness that causes me to spend a lot of time in bed. I don’t think she understood. It’s hard to understand as an adult. It’s hard to comprehend what it is like to experience it unless you’ve been there. And in my case, not many people have. So for a child to comprehend what I mean when I say I can’t, or I say that I’m sick several days in a row but show no physical symptoms, is near impossible.

Parenting from bed is painful because it’s not parenting at all. The three days I spend in bed is three days away from my children. Three days my husband has to sail the ship alone. Three days, wasted in bed.

I want to get up, I want so badly to get up, but I can’t. I just can’t. Some days I’m at 30%, I sit on the couch but I am not exactly active. Some days, many days, I am 100% and I am super mom. But some days, many days, I am 0%. I sob uncontrollably in the living room, silently, so I don’t draw attention to myself. As soon as my husband gets home from work I crawl into bed. Some days, I get into bed before he gets home and I parent from bed until he is home. I want to get up, I don’t want to waste my time in bed. I want to go, do and be. But instead I just am. I am just laying in bed for 72 hours and I hate it.