You see, I’m not really a big fan of December, particularly the first two weeks, and one day in particular. I always feel sad in the run-up to December 13th, the anniversary of my mother’s passing. But this year for some reason it hit me really hard.
It began on December 1st. My alarm went off, I woke up, and I immediately thought “what’s the point?” With a huge amount of effort I got out of bed and went to work, but this routine went on for a few days or so. I felt like crap every day. I had to make a huge effort just to do things that were normal to me.
I have a history of mental health problems, so I kind of knew what was happening. Well, sort of. I came to the conclusion that I was either going through a period of depression, or I was going through a period of grief, or it was a form of PTSD, something to do with all of the shit I went through in the years after my mother died.
Now I know what you’re all saying. I should have told someone. I shouldn’t have suffered alone. But if truth be known I just wanted to get on with it, to get on with things, because I knew that I always felt this way every December, despite the increasing years since that horrible day way, way back in 1983.
How do I feel now? Well, I managed to get through December 13th, even though the big boy Monty had an emergency trip to the vets with an ear infection. I know this is probably going to sound terrible but his illness gave me something to occupy my mind. Thankfully he’s okay now, although he still doesn’t like getting his ears washed out.
So the old mental health is back to what it was before, although I can’t exactly say the same about my physical health given that the neck pain, and it’s subsequent effect of other parts of my body, has returned with a vengeance in the past week or so.
The morale of this story? To be honest I don’t know if there is one. Hopefully next December I’ll feel a little better.