This year has been challenging so far, to say the least. The year began with depression swallowing me whole. I can’t recall how I got through the first few months but somehow things are starting to look a little brighter, so much so that tomorrow I am booked to get on a plane to go to Ireland, to spend the weekend with a group of my friends, but if I’m honest, it’s just about the last thing I want to do.
I am content with sitting in my little house, tucked away in the corner of my cul-de-sac where no-one passes the window and I can pretend that my life is okay. I am happy enough spending the day curled up on the sofa or lazing in bed or even, if I’m feeling brave, out in the garden doing some weeding. I can’t recall now why I agreed to meet up with them all? Why didn’t I just say no when I had a chance? Why on earth did I book and pay for the tickets?
I am scared stiff. Not of flying, not of being with my friends, not of going out, not even of missing the kids. I’m scared of not being in my home. The home that is the only place in the world that I truly feel safe and secure. A place where I can close the door to the outside world and I don’t have to let anyone in. I can shut the windows and blinds and just sit in my own security with everything around me that gives me my identity, that makes me who I am. When I’m in Ireland there will be nothing of me there, only the clothes in my bag. I need my space. I need my bed, my sofa, my kitchen, my usual Saturday night of chatting on the computer to friends, my usual Sunday of staying in bed until I want to face the world. I feel sick and panicky at the thought of not being able to climb into my own bed again until Sunday night and I really don’t know if I can do this.