I avoid, that is my problem

Yes, I am depressed, possibly. I have never admitted it before, and now I am soon sixty, an old woman. I look depressed. Or do I just look old? It is so sad when you have a family and they stare at you wondering how you are, but they don’t want to ask. Not because they’re not interested, not because they feel it has got nothing to do with them. Perhaps because they don’t have the energy, or you didn't teach them how to care.

Growing up was a dread, it was dangerous. Being a young adult was bewildering and confusing. You got married, had kids, grew older. In the end a doctor tells you that you have come to a stage when you are dissatisfied with your life, with what you have done and what you have become. But that is not correct, that is not at all what I feel. I feel fear and see right through the young man with his long education and his family photo in front of him on his desk. Young children smiling, a bit like my own a few years back.

I am getting ready to go to the counsellor, the young doctor sent me to see this woman. Actually, I asked to see her this time. She was very good last year. I have avoided her for weeks, though. I avoid, that is my problem. A few months back I quit my job, resigned, but nothing is wrong with me. I keep telling everyone that I’m fine, just a lot of cortisol in my body, stress hormones. The doctor talked about this, put the idea into my head. Yes, that is acceptable and understandable for everyone. Stress, anxiety. It gets too much. You can’t live like that and should take charge of your health. Are there some natural remedies you could buy, people ask, the few I talk to.

I will hide away behind a pillar as I wait to be called into her office. Hopefully no one sees me there, what would I say? Not that I know many people around here, but I would hate to be confronted, caught. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want to be heard either. I find it hard to talk openly to her, almost impossible. Half of the time I forget what has happened, or I can’t understand it. Everything seems mysterious. She must hear so many sad stories, much worse than mine. From sick people, those who really need help. I shouldn’t be complaining, or telling my counsellor stories that are half lies. It is not right. No, not at all.

I made her teary last time with some of my talking. What will I say today? Is there anything I need to tell her about? No. I would rather stay home. But last year, after going in and getting help, I managed to get a new job. I loved my job. Until I resigned. This is why I tell myself I must go, and the whole afternoon will be blank. I can relax, unburdened, unloaded, unworried. Watch a film perhaps, on Netflix. Not write.

She is the only one I talk to who really listens and understands, but she gets my name wrong. She does not know me. I still give her all my past and present, worries about the future. She tells me to go home and talk to my family. She thinks that is very important. This, you know, is looking after yourself. And saying softly as you get into the car: It will get better.