Sometimes you fake it till you make it but still end up wondering how convincing you’ve been. That’s the isolation of depression.
I looked up at the mountain as I came home today. I’ve driven this road a hundred times in the last six months and haven’t given it even a moment of thought. So knowing that what properly functioning people do is notice, I somehow slowed the whirring gears of my mentally ill brain enough to see that the leaves are gone. Wooden skeleton trees stand frozen waiting for the heavy snow to adorn their naked limbs; Less showy than their previous blazing jewelry but still a delicate sort of beauty.
Mount Hanley (our tiny Nova Scotia community) is still the place it was six months ago as well. Everything carried on without me; the world not requiring my sanity, my work or my involvement. My children grew despite my hollowness. They smiled and ate; played and worked. I wonder if they saw me pretending to live or if they were…
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