This sickness of the soul kidnapped me one morning without warning. My pyjamas became my uniform. My tousled hair became my miserable, undignified, fallen crown. I feared the end of my vacation and couldn’t imagine the idea of going out and meeting people, a false smile pasted on my face.
By Ingrid Falaise
Depression had built a roadway into me, quietly, sneakily. It had closed in around me until I suffocated, broken into a thousand pieces. The precursor signs were all present: a loss of energy, headaches, fatigue and angst leading to insomnia.
But I didn’t listen to those alerts. I had buried my past, my hurts of long ago. Not wanting to revisit the scorched earth where I had traveled, I didn’t take care to let my wounds scar and heal. A simple band-aid doesn’t last long.
The depression lasted a while. It mortgaged my vacations, my health, my work and certain friendships, which would have ended anyway. Nothing happens without a reason, the wise tell us.
And one day, no longer able to support the mask and the emptiness, I caved in to my inner voice which told me to seek help. No one could do this in my place. It was up to me to phone the number scribbled on a bit of paper. Madame Depression didn’t want to abandon residence under my skin. It wouldn’t happen. Madame was hanging on and settling in, determined, persistent.
Ingrid Falaise, an actress, wrote the autobiographical book Le Monstre, which chronicles 2 years she spent in an abusive relationship with a narcissistic pervert. She is the spokesperson for the SOS Violence conjugale organization. They offer services in English and French. If you need help, please visit their website.