It's been around three and a half years since I gave birth to the most beautiful little girl who is the sassiest and girlier version of myself, so far. That means it's be close to four years that I have battled anxiety and depression.
Four years. Four years of not being 100% myself. Four years of not having things "together" in life like I did before. Four years of fighting the urges to hide from everyone because it's all too much. Four years of wondering when if it will ever be like it was before.
I've done therapy and I did the medicine thing. It's what I had to do to come up for air from the dark and drowning depths of depression trying to pull me eternally under. I did what I had to. I've fought hard over the past few years.
And yet, things aren't the same. It's still a battle. Some days are worse than others. And some days are just a small step. And that is okay. Any small step of progress is a step in the right direction.
Last weekend, the kids and I decorated for Halloween. Little #1 kept saying, "this is going to be so creepy!" He was overjoyed with his favorite holiday. Little #2 was just as excited, but in a different way. She kept saying, "this is the best Halloween ever, ever, ever!" And to her, it was. She had not experienced the momma who went all out for holidays and did everything over the top. This was all new for her and she was thrilled. The porch and yard are now fully ready for Halloween.
One small step.
While under the depths, I ceased to live a normal life. I stopped taking care of responsibilities. I fed and changed the kids, the end.
And my house took a beating. My husband tried to keep up, but theres only so much a man working 45+ hours a week and coming home to a wife who had all but checked out can do.
It's been a work in progress. I have a busy and filling schedule now. My dark days are fewer. But my house has still not come back to its normal self. Top that off with living in the country and my least favorite little critter entering our home, the field mouse.
I cleaned for hours this morning. I saw him and he ran. I screeched, took a breath, and moved on. Saw him again later. Almost like he was taunting me, but I kept on. Until he almost ran across my hand. I was done. I texted my husband on the verge of tears. I tried so hard. I accomplished some. Not what I wanted, but nevertheless I did some.
One small step.
I'm not sure the point of writing this, other than to say don't be so quick to judge when you walk into people's houses or see them barely keeping it together. Offer them a hand or some encouragement. You never know what they're going through or how far they've come.
It could be their one small step.