I have a good excuse. I finally said "enough" to my depression.
For those of you that are rolling your eyes right now, thinking that you've bumbled across another self-absorbed blog, you may move along to that shopping you were going to do. I understand. I used to feel the same way. One simply did not talk about mental health issues.
It took me several years to figure out that I couldn't snap myself out of it. I finally broke down and asked for help. There's no shame in asking for help. One would think that I had been raised in a British household. Stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on. Without going into detail, it took me 16 years as a mother to realize that we, as adults, continue the example our parents set for us. Brick, meet my head.
Fifteen years ago I was thrust into a role, that I neither wanted nor had the skill for. It wasn't that of being a mother, it was that role of being the glue that held the extended family together. What finally pushed me into the depression was the guilt I felt when my glue wasn't sticky enough and it all fell apart. That and my daughter pointing out that I didn't laugh any more. Knife, meet my heart.