This is a difficult story to tell, but I want to remember it.
On Christmas Eve morning, after making breakfast and opening gifts, I went into my room, got into bed, and cried. I cried and cried and felt as though I'd never stop.
Over the next week I spent a lot of time being sad crying, and close quarters with my youngest meant he saw me cry a couple of times.
New Year's Eve my car door latch had frozen and when I discovered that I couldn't close my door, I lost it. Everything felt so hopeless and I just couldn't stand it. My boyfriend fixed my door, I dried my tears and went on with my day, but before that happened my son said to me, "maybe you need to go back to the hospital...they took good care of you there, and you felt better." I had been thinking about going back to the hospital the day before. Eerie.
New Year's night the boy had a hard time going to sleep, and he finally burst into tears, loudly, an hour after he was supposed to be asleep. He told me he was worried that I would die of depression. "And if you died of depression, I would die of depression."
That boy can break my heart with just a few words. He's very in touch with his feelings.
I feel badly for him, because he feels a responsibility towards me that no child should feel toward their parent. I feel badly for him because my disease makes his life harder.
I don't know how to end this story, but I wanted to tell it, as much as I could.