The Invisible Face Of Depression

This short story was written a few years ago. I’m gradually moving some of my older articles and writing from various platforms to Substack.

Today is one of those days. It’s hubby’s 61st birthday, and we don’t have spare money for a gift or to celebrate.

Instead of celebrating, we took our trusty old van for its warrant of fitness, required every six months here in New Zealand for a vehicle as old as ours.

He drives the van.

I follow in the car.

We have a couple of hours to wait, so we hang around the shops looking at stuff we can’t buy, then go into a cafe and splurge on a steamy, sweet hot chocolate with marshmallows on the side, and a gluten-free cake each.

That was his treat. He was happy with that.

Then we get the call to say the van is done and it needs work. Probably more work than he can physically do these days. More work than the van is possibly worth if we have to get someone else to do it.

The tears that I’d managed to hold off before we left home threaten again.

Chin up! Smile on!

Back to the workshop to pick up the van, have all the problems explained by the mechanic, pay the bill, and off we go.

Hubby heads home in the van. I head to the supermarket to pick up a couple of things before I drive home.

On my own in the car, there is no need to push back the tears.

How many people are driving this very minute with tears running down their faces?

I wonder. Probably hundreds. Maybe thousands.

I notice the temptation, just for an instant, to turn the wheel toward the milk tanker coming toward me. I visualise the impact in my mind for a split second. But it’s just for that moment in time. That’s not for me.

Then I’m home.

A big hug from Hubby. Drying my eyes. Inhaling my oils. Getting my shit together.

Smiling as I walk out the door to go fix people’s bodies.

Hiding my pain and knowing that tomorrow is another day.

When the sun stops shining, and the black cloud returns, the face of depression smiles in public and cries in private. But the cloud isn’t forever, and the sun always eventually returns.

Things always get better.

This too will pass.

These are my mantras.