"Good news, Meg. Michael's getting married." I was honestly excited as I waved the letter over the fence to Megan. I couldn't wait to share the news and, as expected, Meg was as excited as I.

"Oh, Babs that's great news. When's it to be?"

"In about eight weeks' time. On the 3rd of November. It's up in Bolton." Another thought struck me: "I'll have to get moving now and find something to wear."

"Are you sure you're up to it?" asked Meg warily. She knew me so well.

"I'll just have to be brave," I replied stoically. "Michael said he'd sort out somewhere for me to stay."

"I look forward to seeing your wedding outfit. Don't forget you'll need something warm," said Meg with that understanding smile of hers. "I'll see you later then." She returned her attention to her washing.

 

 

It was a week since that letter. A week that had, as it always did, allowed the confusion that was my mind to jumble my emotions.

Gazing jealously from beneath the curtain, I could see Megan enjoying the morning sunshine. I knew she'd be humming happily in her garden.
Why couldn't I be like that? All I wanted was to feel normal! The misery and the tears the guilt was relentless; I hadn't seen Meg for a week. I didn't want to see her - I wanted to be alone. I wanted the world to go away: all of them!

"Babs?" She must have seen the curtain drop back into place. "Babs, are you alright?"
I knew she wouldn't go away now. I would have to face her. She knew me so well.
Dabbing at my damp cheeks I slowly emerged from the back door knowing that my puffy eyes would give me away - would shout from the rooftops that I had been crying. Immediately she recognised the situation. She had met it before. "Who's upset you, love?" she asked.

"Nobody, Meg," I sobbed, not daring to look into her eyes. "I'm just feeling down, that's all. I'm just being silly; you know how I get sometimes."

"Tell me about it. Let's see if we can sort it out." She had proved to be a good and patient friend over the years of our joint widowhood, but how could she sort out what we didn't understand? What I didn't even understand?

"It's that bloody depression again, isn't it?"

"It's overwhelming," I sniffed. "Everything is black!"

"Oh dear. I'll come round shall I?" Meg let herself into the garden using the small gate that my William, had let into the fence many years before. We had both been grateful for that gate many times over the recent years.

"Now, my love, what's the problem?" asked Meg as we settled down at the kitchen table with a cuppa. "How are you getting on with the wedding outfit? Was Michael pleased when you told him that you're going?" she asked.

I said nothing. My lips quivered.

"You have told Michael? Please tell me that you have answered his letter?"

I swallowed hard and raised my eyes to hers, "I'm frightened, Meg. I'm terrified! I don't want to go."

"Okay," said Meg calmly, reaching for my hand. "Why don't you want to go? You have always said that you would love to see Michael settled."

"Yes. I just don't know, Meg. I want to go, really I do, but my mind is scared stiff. I know I won't enjoy it. I wish they hadn't invited me. I just wish they would leave me alone!" I was almost shouting now as I felt tears streaming down my face again.

"You are allowed to enjoy yourself, my love. You can give yourself permission to be happy, you know," she responded. "I'll come with you to choose an outfit? We can make a day of it," she suggested.

"I'm not worried about shopping," I explained. "I just don't want to go to the wedding."

"The first thing we must do," said Meg decisively, "is to call Michael and Veronica and tell them that you will be going."

I felt guilty, stupid, that my friend should be concerned about a situation that she didn't, and couldn't, understand. "Alright, Meg," I conceded, "but you must appreciate how I feel. It's agony for me. Torture!"
Depression, or Dysthymia, as my particular strain of this debilitating mental illness is called, is the inability to enjoy enjoyable situations.
Every day is a conflict of emotions - a continuous low level misery. "We'll beat it," affirmed Meg. "We can't have you missing the big day."

 

 

Well, it's now just under a week to go and the stress is, as usual, horrendous but, with Meg's support, I am sure that I will survive and hopefully enjoy the day and no one will be any the wiser. Please keep your fingers crossed for me

[THE END]

© scrapyardsummer 2020