More often than not there’s no discernible reason – no traumatic event or sad anniversary or painful memory. But it comes anyway. It sneaks in and drops a scrim between me and clear vision. Between me and capability. Between me and reality.
I’m suddenly and painfully aware of all my many shortcomings. I’m lazy. Thoughtless. Bad at my job. Hopeless. Useless.
I want to hide in my bed and sleep or not sleep. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I can’t enjoy my children or my husband.
I match my outside appearance to my inside one – wearing sloppy clothes and maybe not even showering.
I have to force myself to leave the house. I can’t answer my phone – I mean, I am physically repulsed by the thought of talking to even my closest friends.
I become so completely consumed with how bad I feel that I then conclude I am the world’s biggest narcissist, which only compounds the self-loathing.
I can’t pray. I know there must be a part of my soul that’s crying out to God, but it’s nothing I could say with my lips. I think this feels like the most abject failure – what kind of Christian church worker can’t even pray from the depths of despair?
I can’t explain how this feels to anyone when deep in the throes of it. Not even my husband. And so I just appear mopey. And then I feel like I should just be able to snap out of it. But I can’t. I’m not capable. I am unwell. I could no sooner snap out of a broken leg.
Before too long, maybe a day or two, the fog clears. I genuinely laugh. I stretch, and put on jeans that make my butt look good. But there’s a scar on my spirit and it reminds me to be on alert for the next time.