Lost

"Listen", she said softly, "I don't like to
speak out of turn".

She sat down opposite my desk, closed the door.

"I've seen you every day, worked for you, it's eight years now". Time flies... "This person who comes in here with red eyes every day and goes upstairs and closes the door so we can't see her crying, this is not you. We've lost you. Where are you?"

"Oh don't worry," I warbled cheerily. "I'm fine when I go out to meetings. I'm not like this when I'm out representing the public face."

"I know", she said. "That's not my point. You are suffering from depression: you are ill. You are worrying about things you don't need to worry about. You are thinking in ways that don't make sense. It's not as bleak as it all seems - it's only inside your brain that it's dark".

I didn't say anything. Inside my head it was too dark to see.

"You're going to the doctor", she said. "And not that stupid Yvonne woman". That's a relief.

"Try not to worry. Everything will be ok. You are a good, happy person. We'll get you back".

Maybe everything will be ok.

In the meantime, a promise to myself. I will triangulate my list of worries with the tiny list of people who give a shit, and I will only worry about the things they tell me are worth worrying about. There are good things,I know. Just hard to see them in the dark.