Caregiving is meaningful, but it can also be consuming. And when your home becomes your workplace, your sanctuary, and your duty station all at once, it’s easy to forget that you’re allowed to step outside of it.
But here’s the thing I keep reminding myself: There is always a door.
A door, that I am not quite fond of. I somehow became desensitized to the outside world, including my own personal spaces. Perhaps that is depression in a nutshell, and the irony saying that as if I am not familiar with depressions grip.
I know depression well. I know how it can make me feel isolated from the world, even from the spaces that once felt safe. But that’s the thing — depression makes me feel like I don’t have a safe space at all, not even among the people I consider close to me. Maybe it’s because depression convinces me that I’m completely alone. That no one is coming to find me in this deep hole in the ground.
Ever seen Maid? Yeah — that hole. That’s where I am.
It’s dark. It’s cold. And the voices above me are muffled, like they’re coming from another world. My body feels paralyzed. I try to move, to reach out, to engage with others, but all I manage is the smallest motion. It’s like I’m trapped inside this body, this brain that feels void of life, functioning only on the bare chemical processes that keep me alive.