The morning after crying yourself to sleep, you feel like you’ve been involved a minor car accident. You cried because you were scared, or sad, or overwhelmed by the insurance money you’ll end up owing, and your body aches all over, like everything’s just a little bit off. You went to bed feeling unstable, on rocky ground, shaken from the accident. And then you tried to sleep, but couldn’t do it, couldn’t do it without remembering that fear, that sadness, that shame you feel because you were involved in an accident in the first place. So you cried. With abandon. Not fully knowing the reason for the tears, but knowing you were sad, and somehow, that sadness needed to get out. Your pillow was soaked, your husband was worried, and you were unable to calm down until at last—at last—all the tears were out. And in the morning, you woke up bleary-eyed and reluctant, wishing you could stay in bed and didn’t have to face your mundane little life, didn’t have to eat breakfast or go to the bathroom or take your medicine or brush your teeth. None of it seems important in the wake of that cry. None of it matters.
Of course, it’s raining the morning after your cry, the weather perfectly matching your mood and making it harder for you to justify being and staying out of bed. When the world cries, shouldn’t you cry along with it? You wander aimlessly through the house, you eat too much cereal (because of course you are ravenous after expending all that energy on your tears) and you sip cup after cup of coffee, that warm, sweet, milky comfort that has slowly become your elixir of life. You build a castle with your little one and then set him in front of the TV so you can pretend to be alone, even though you’re only in the next room. You pick the easiest chore to cross of your to-do list. And then you sit, directionless, wondering what you’re supposed to do next.
I am currently in the throes of a deep, deep depression. I have sought help from a counselor and a psychiatrist, but that kind of help takes time. Healing takes time, and coming back from this will take lots and lots of time, self-reflection, and probably a handful of other uncomfortable things that I won’t want to deal with. Sometimes it’s easier to just be in the sadness, to wallow in it, to welcome it in, because being sad and alone, because throwing your own little pity party, is—well, it feels safe. It’s not revealing yourself to anyone; it’s not burdening anyone with your mental illness, your inability to be normal, your inability to listen their pep talk that you know is well meaning but frankly, is just empty words.
I saw this commercial and cried. Please watch it with an open heart.