I want to stop writing about depression. I’m sick of writing about depression.
I had fooled myself into thinking that I might not feel this way anymore. After the divorce. I was free, I thought.
I remember feeling like this before. I remember sitting outside on the little deck attached to our upstairs bedroom. I liked it there. I could look into the little natural waterway below and the overgrowth of trees and brush that bordered our house. I remember sitting on the little plastic chair, my mind turning a million ways, hoping that it would just go away. Wishing that he would notice and help me but not knowing how he could. Sometimes it seems like I spent our whole marriage waiting for him. To come home, to notice, to care, to lighten up, to respect me. He didn’t know what to do. How could he? Once it was…
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