I'm still me.....

I'm tired all the time now. I wake up and don't want to get up.

My jeans don't fit me and I have to keep pulling them up. I used to be able to eat a big meal and then some more. Now I struggle to finish an average-sized meal. I feel sick if I try to eat what I used to eat. It's a struggle to keep weight on.

I'm skinny. Thin. Slender. 'Looking great'. Whatever.

I'm still me. I'm still me.

In the morning I take a pill and wash it down with various vitamins and herbal tinctures. I take some more herbal tincture before bed. Sometimes it's hard to remember that I have to do it. When I do remember, it feels good to do something positive for myself. To help myself.

I can't remember what I did last week. I can't think about what I'll be doing next week unless it's really, really, important or exciting.

I'm so tired.

But I'm still me. I still like doing exciting things. I still like to do good things. Be organised. Be healthy. It's just too tiring sometimes.

I visit the doctor and the psychotherapist each week instead of playgroup and Bible Study. I get asked 'How are you going today?' and have to stop and think about my feelings. It's hard to feel sometimes.

I have to crack through a brittle layer of ice to get to my feelings. It's hard work to chip away while medical health professionals watch your body language and look into your eyes, checking to see if you're really OK.

But I'm still me. I'm still me. I like to laugh. I like people. I like life. I'm OK. I'll be OK.

I'm still me.

I've been in hospital for severe depression and severe anxiety. My kitchen bench has been full of flowers. I am in recovery. I have been blessed with kind words, beautiful, thoughtful gifts, cards, notes and messages.

I'm overwhelmed with the blessing of good friends. I'm grateful but uncomfortable with blessing - I prefer to not be noticed or if I am noticed, to be seen blessing others. It's hard to not be able to do things for other people and accept generous help from others.

I'm uncomfortable. I'm learning to accept help. But I'm still me.

My bedside table has seven books stacked on it. I'm currently reading them all. There are four books on the floor, too. I've read all of those except one. Which I'm currently reading.

Today I washed my hair. Then I sat in the sun and read a novel. A romance novel. It's the fourth one I've read in a week. I haven't read a romance novel for years. I haven't read a Christian romance novel ever.

Both my daughters slept while I just sat. And read. I couldn't even think about what I should be doing.

The care factor at the moment is.........low.

I don't feel like me.

Who is this person who eats little, forgets things, doesn't really look forward.....or back, swallows previously despised anti-depressant pills each morning, reads numerous books when she previously had no time to.......and books that she never really liked before.

Who is she? She that loathes being cold, ten times more than she used to? Who is she that just sits sometimes. Looking at everything. For no particular reason. Why does she float along with the currents of life, when she previously swum so hard?

I am still me. Just with a few dents, many more quiet moments and little daily morning pills.

The real me is slowly appearing, like a bright flash of colour through a mirage. Difficult to lay eyes on.

But surely approaching through the refining fire.


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