I want my solitude back!!

I’ve been suffering pretty badly from depression lately. Normally, I don’t say that I ‘suffer’ from anything, but for the past few weeks, my absence has come down to definite suffering. 

 

I mentioned a while back that I’m self-managed. I have been for several years. Every so often, the doctor and I agree to a course of ‘happy pills’ when I’ve had a bad few days, but I end up grinding my teeth to nubs, or completely characterless, or throwing furniture at people who annoy me, and we quietly agree that I go back to self-management and ride the bad day waves when they come.

However, in case I haven’t managed to mention it a time or seven, I’m ever so slightly pregnant at the moment. Yep, I’m 17 weeks in, and hormonal like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t remember there being so many bad days in a long, long time. Possibly because there haven’t been since my last pregnancy. 

However, last time I was pregnant, I didn’t have a 4-year-old daughter with an immense love for the sound of her own voice and no off switch. I didn’t have a 9-year-old stepson who, lately, seems incapable of personal autonomy (I’m getting to that, too!). And my partner at the time went out and worked. I could work my way through the bad days on my own, and no one expected human conversation or even smiles from me.

For 3 weeks now, B has been at home. He suffered a pretty nasty scare with his heart at work and as such has joined the ranks of the unemployed whose wives would cheerfully strangle them if we thought we’d cope with the kids on our own. Because B is now home, there is someone for my crankiness, bitterness and anxiety to be aimed at all the time.

 

Before B stopped working, I had O here on my own one day a week, and I could manage to be a Sunshine Mummy for that one day, and there was someone to palm her off to on weekends so I could hide under the bed and snarl at dust bunnies. And because B wasn’t here all the time, I loved and appreciated him when he was. Now, much as I adore him, I’m realising how much I LOVE being alone! I adore watching crappy cooking shows while I pretend I might make that someday. I love the absolute shit out of putting my headphones in, listening to podcasts and not worrying that anyone is going to destroy my rhythm while I clean, or cook, or pretend to be useful. I miss solitude. I miss stretches of silence where it’s just me and my thoughts.

Because of this turn of events, what might otherwise have been well-managed depression, anxiety and anger isn’t getting the time it needs to work out, because I can’t dance around the house to stupid Icona Pop songs, and I can’t scream at the top of my lungs. Without my solitude, I’m drowning in my own depressive thoughts. And, here’s the kicker, I can’t medicate!! I can’t do anything except hope to god I don’t snap and end up in a lovely padded room with a jacket that makes me give myself cuddles!

I love my husband. I love my kids. I’m so lucky and grateful to be surrounded by a loving, caring family, and I adore looking after them. But sometimes all I want is to be left alone.

Is that so wrong?