Last night I was laying on my couch waiting for the excitement of the latest Game of Thrones episode to pass so that I would feel tired enough for bed. For any of my readers who follow the show and are caught up, you know how dark the show was. Literally. (I feel like I don’t need a spoiler warning for that since the episode was called “The Long Night,” which isn’t usually a bright sounding thing).
Anyone who knows anything about the show also knows that they have a habit of killing people’s favorite characters, (seriously, the show’s actors must have the worst job security) so there is always a creeping sense of tension about what is waiting in the shadows.
And last night, as I lay on my couch, still digesting the Thrones, I identified with that dread. In the calm of the night I felt the worry settling in. What if the familiar pains of depression return tomorrow? What if the unsettling feeling that is my anxiety is awaiting me when I awake?
See, a lot of the time when I am not in a depression, it seems so far off, so foreign, like a white walker somewhere far off beyond the wall (sorry again for anyone who doesn’t watch Thrones). Other times, when the ghost of my pain teases my heart, not quite blossoming into full blown depression, but just reminding me that it is there, waiting for me, that is my fear in the darkness.
It is the fear that the depression will return. That I’ll be useless. That I’ll be an embarrassment, letting down those that I love as I struggle with my own personal darkness.
Most times I can push that fear aside, or else it evaporates in the light of day. But sometimes, like last night, it sits deep within, keeping me up even after the excitement of my favorite show has passed and my body is beyond tired, just to remind me that in the darkness, my own personal demons are still waiting. And I’ll just have to be stronger than them when they come.