Since the 20mg a day of Fluoxetine (Prozac by another name) has stablised my mind, feeling sad has been an irregular occurrence. So much so that I now tend to view sadness with suspicion (and fear) whenever I notice it hanging around. What are you doing here? What do you want? Are you back for good? Did you ever leave or have you just been hiding, biding your time?
On Tuesday I woke up with that awful heaviness weighing me down. The urge to cry filled me for no reason other than recognising the blackness that was rising within.
In the past, my love of drama would lead me to wallow. Really feel those feelings. I’d give into it, let my misery control my day, indulging it like a spoilt child.
But on this particular morning, something else was also present, encouraging me to observe the sadness without touching it. I got up, determined to go to work. I let myself cry while understanding that my tears were only of my body, my human-ness, not me. I stopped to buy myself a hot chocolate, tried to really taste the sweetness. I listened to music that filled my ears with words of love. My sorrow sat in the passenger seat, occassionally mumbling negatively, but I was steering the car.
The first person I encountered when I started work was an elderly man. He smiled at me, cracked a few jokes then departed, wishing me a good day and offering God’s blessings.
I indeed felt blessed.