Rachael Newham

I could feel the lump solidifying in my throat, my eyes burned and brimmed with tears, the exhaustion had settled upon me like a leaden cloak.

It was all too familiar.

I have been acquainted with this fog for over half of my life, and yet it still catches me unawares.

It’s different now, though. Instead of retreating to sleep to let it pass, there is my gorgeous pint sized whirlwind dancing around. He’s spinning in circles until he collapses in a fit of giggles, clutching his model met line train and pointing at every bird he glimpses. He does not understand why Mummy is slower, tireder and more short tempered; he makes no allowances and doesn’t adjust his expectations.

It is a terrifying gift, his living in each and every moment.

I worry often about the effect of these weeks in the fog will have on him. Will he live under his own fog? Or will it enlarge his kindness? Is this is the answer to my prayer that he would be kind before anything else, something he will learn best when I am at my worst?

In reality, if he remembers anything, he will remember more time with his beloved Daddy, train trips with his Nana and Granddad, train watching with his Grandma.

I am unreservedly grateful for those around me who stepped up and stepped in so that I could step back and recover. It is a privilege; this chance to rest and I’m all too aware of those who parent alone under the fog, who cannot step back.

I understand this fog too well, I know that it passes swiftest when I let it roll; that when I attempt to hold it all back, to stem the flow that it will inevitably fell me.

The fog is receding now, clarity rising like the morning sun, tears drying like the dew.

It is less dramatic today, than it once was, but no less exhausting.

Depression does not always scream, sometimes it lays its heaviness upon the shoulders of those who have been battling in the war for far too long.

There are no real lessons to be wrung from days like these, but my prayer as I share is that someone may reach in to another engulfed by the fog with a prayer, a text or a gift.

That those under mental illness’ tyranny will not be left to fight alone, but be met by those who may not understand, but who commit to care.