I'm f.i.n.e.

Hubby is a patient man. Strong, loving, considerate too, but mostly patient (in the extreme). He has a tough job sometimes - he has me. Granted, I have my good points (too many to list, obviously) but then there's also that nasty cloud/dog/bubble aspect just waiting in the wings, ready to pounce as soon as I let my guard down. And when it pounces on me, it pounces on him too.

                                        Image from I HAD A BLACK DOG copyright Matthew Johnstone 2006

But there are varying degrees of pounce. This last few weeks, as you may have noticed if you've been keeping up with my writing, things have slipped a little. I'm getting by, I'm going to work, I'm interacting with people, I'm doing my share at home. I'm functioning fine. But underneath it? Underneath it things are a little grey, and I'm having to push that much harder than I'm happy with.

So how does this relate to Hubby? In the answering of the age old question - 'How are you doing?' My standard response this last while - 'I'm fine'. And we all know what that stands for, right? Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. He knows that too, and somewhere in my mind, I know that. But always, always, it takes time to see it. We had a chat about this yesterday, after I finally conceded that I'm not in great form. Needless to say, he already knew, and has known for a while. But in neglecting to tell him, I set a chain of events in motion, a pattern that we both recognise and dread. The potted version goes something like this:
I'm sure you can see how quickly this could spiral out of control. Thankfully, after many years of living with this, we're both starting to recognise more quickly when this is what's going on. We even managed to laugh about it yesterday. And that's when it starts to get easier again. Once I admit that I'm not doing so well, the hard shell around me seems to soften a little. I'm still not great, but at least he knows, and instead of pushing him away, we can hug. This helps him too, because then he knows it's not personal. I don't expect him to make it better for me, that's not up to him, but he can support me, and in turn, I can reassure him that he isn't actually the problem. More importantly, I can see that he's not the problem.

We're learning, all the time. Every time I slip, every time we talk and see what we can do to make it better, we're gaining another level of defence against depression. So while these blips are unpleasant, we can take something from them. That's what counts. 

So how am I today? I'm not fine. But I am ok. 

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