Confessional by Barbara Nadel

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I did actually do my blog for this week before this one. But now I think that this should replace it and that next week should be reserved for a rather joyful piece about İstanbul.

I’m not looking for sympathy. I just think that people should know just how quickly the abyss of depression can open up sometimes. I was OK on Friday, looking forward to a weekend of no editing. Now it’s Sunday and I feel so worthless I can’t find a cupboard dark enough in which to hide. Something has triggered this off but now it’s going it has taken on a momentum all of its own.

Of course I know with my psychology grad head on that all this is about underlying fears and horrors that can be triggered off at the drop of a hat. But as a civilian, I still feel bewildered, appalled and amazed by how my family can even be in the same house with me. Not that I’m in the ranging around stage. I’m at the hiding, weeping place and I think that everything I have ever done is shit, a mistake and a cause for punishment.

I would like to get drunk or just shove a load of substances into myself and crawl under the table and try not to breathe. But I can’t. If I drink, it’ll never end and no one can have that, least of all me. It feels indulgent to be so weak and so full of self-loathing and all of that makes me hate myself more. Depression is a thief that takes everything you have and then comes back in the middle of the night and nicks your sleep. I hate it. At the moment I don’t hate is as much as I hate myself, that just isn’t possible. But I will hate it fanatically eventually, and then I will begin to feel something other than whatever this is.

I will be OK. I just had to confess.

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