Depression Marathon Blog
- Diagnosed with depression twelve years ago, I lost the life I once knew, but in the process re-created a better me. I am alive and functional today because of my dog, my treatment team, my sobriety, and my willingness to re-create myself within the confines of this illness. I hate the illness, but I'm grateful for the person I've become and the opportunities I've seized because of it. I hope writing a depression blog will reduce stigma and improve the understanding and treatment of people with mental illness. All original content copyright to me: etta. Enjoy your visit!
Friday, December 21, 2012
It's hard to believe it's been one week since Puck died. The hole in my heart still feels gaping and raw. I can't get used to my quiet house. Everything I did for the first time without him was difficult this week. Even doing the laundry was sad. I couldn't hear him padding about above my head, as I loaded the washing machine in the basement. And when I began cleaning my house, including vacuuming my floor, yesterday, I thought I might collapse in despair. I couldn't stop crying.
I cleaned because my house needed it, and because D is coming this weekend. I was able to work through the pain and get it done, although it took most of the day. I put some of Puck's things away, but I've left others out. His presence is still here even though most of his hair has been swept away. It will be really strange when I finally run out of little bundles of black hair to pick up. I'm sure there are still a few hiding around here right now.
It's been a strange week at work. It was alternately difficult and relieving. Sometimes it was a nice distraction. At other times I wanted the people around me to quit going about their lives as if nothing had happened! Couldn't they see how much pain I was in? Fortunately, those egocentric thoughts were somewhat rare. Actually, my co-workers have been very supportive and kind. Everyone knew Puck was my family.
Life is moving forward, even though I'd like to reverse time and erase what happened. I talk to my boy a lot. It's habit, and it's helpful. I am awaiting the arrival of his ashes, and I'm in contact with someone who hand makes memorial boxes in which to place them. I received the paw print from the vet clinic a couple of days ago. Actually, I received it on my birthday. I recognize every bump, crevice and crease. I think I even know which paw they used. I was surprised by that. But I guess 13 years does lend itself to intimate knowledge of a loved one. I miss you, Buddy. I love you.
Content from & copyright to Depression Marathon & etta . 12/21/2012 07:34:00 PM