Читать книгу Daring to Fight - Victoria Mininger - Страница 10

I remember as if it was yesterday. Light streamed in through the living room windows, lighting the space inside our home. I could hear my husband quietly moving around: washing dishes, starting a load of laundry, feeding the dogs, and putting them out for the day. The children were already on the school bus, yet another task he had attended to earlier that morning. Patiently, quietly, he moved from one room to the next as I lied there on the couch. While I could see the light coming through the window and feel its warmth, the sun’s rays struggled to pierce the darkness that seemed to fill my world.

It had been three months of lying there on that couch, drifting in and out of sleep, struggling to push through the long hours of the day. Nights felt even longer. The days passed like a silent black and white film on repeat. Very little seemed to pierce the grayness of those hours. As I look back, I can so vividly see myself lying there, as if I were an outside observer, seeing my physical body from an outside space. For a brief moment, I feel sad for her. That shell of a woman I used to know. A woman who had taken on too much with too little margin. Whose heart longed to serve, but broke under the weight of it all.

It’s funny how depression comes sneaking in. Months prior to my time on the couch, I would have never imagined myself in such a place of hopelessness and despair. Living in a world gray and unfeeling. Looking back, my depression had been building for a long time. But just as an earthquake can hit without warning, so did the darkness.