If you sh*t your pants, you don’t wear them over your trousers. That’s one of my mental images re why people tend to try and hide depression.
After a good long spell of, dare I say it, genuine contentment and happiness, or at least some of that, plus plenty of more everyday equilibrium, ye olde Black Dog has returned, as a drooling ravenous and cacophonous wolf-pack.
Over the years I’ve called the Samaritans a number of times. When I’m at my wit’s end, and feel I have nowhere else to turn. I don’t want to further burden Teresa, or family, or friends. Everyone has enough troubles of their own. And besides, I don’t want to be that depressing baleful broken record nobody wants to hear.
Most times I called The Samaritans in the past I’d hang up in disgust part way through the call. Feeling that it was not helping at all. Maybe even making things worse? But recently I’ve called them in a spate of desperate moments, including twice in quick succession yesterday.
And this time I was just venting. Maybe I was simply just much worse? So much so that their service did actually work for me. Thank goodness they are there to listen. I really don’t know what might’ve transpired without that safety valve.