Not that I would change a thing, I just want to do it all again.

My darling friends,

I'm so tired. I'm sick and I'm lonely and I'm exhausted. I can't post any outfits because I'm too worn down to get dressed. When I feel like this, I can't even imagine that I'll keep blogging; I can't see how it will be possible for me to write about myself, my every day life, how I'll ever put on nice clothes again and go outside and take photos and post them. It all seems unbearably hard, almost impossible - and what's worse, I can't see the point in any of it. Not right now.

The reason I started this blog was not that I thought people would admire me, tell me I'm pretty or that my clothes are cute, that I'm a good writer or that my opinions are interesting. It definitely wasn't because I have any illusions that I'll start earning money from it or become a so called "blogger celebrity". No, the reason was very simple: I felt all alone, and I desperately wanted to communicate with people, someone, anyone. And it worked! You wonderful people, who comment on this blog or e-mail me, have become the group of friends I simply don't have "in real life". But just like I have serious trouble staying in touch with friends outside of the internet, I don't see how I will be able to keep all of you in my life. And the reason is exactly the same: I don't feel like I've got anything to give. I'm nothing but this sad, lonely girl who lies on her couch and watches Grey's Anatomy until she falls asleep at 5 am because she's scared to go to bed alone, who won't talk about anything but her cats, who bites her fingernails down to the flesh, who wants to eat but can't find the energy to even make a sandwhich. Who can't take care of herself, so how could she ever be of any use to anyone else?

That's how I feel tonight.

Yes, I truly am Little Miss Sunshine.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I've had the most painful period cramps all day, throwing up and feeling ridiculously sorry for myself. Or maybe that they found premalignant changes during a pap smear back in August, that I've been worried out of my mind ever since and am having surgery in ten days and I'm just not good with surgeries, I'm not good with being sick, I'm not good with hospitals and pain and needles and maybe I shouldn't watch so much Grey's Anatomy because people constantly die on that show from the most routine procedures.

Or maybe it's because my boyfriend is making a film in another town and he's never home and even though I'm happy for him and proud of him and even though I've gotten better at it since the cats came into our lives, I'm still not exactly comfortable with being by myself. My head starts producing the bad kind of thoughts and noone is here to tell me they aren't true (and that even if they are, they won't kill me).

Or maybe, just maybe, this all is somehow connected to the fact that my best friend in the world, the only best friend I've ever had, the only person who's ever really, really known me through and through, was buried a year ago today.

I wrote her a song, it's bad, of course, since I'm not a particularly musical person, not like she was. But I still think she'd be proud of me, she might even like it. It starts like this:

Once or twice or a thousand times, I have wished to live my life all over

Not that I would change a thing; I just want to do it all again

Break the same rules, play the same games

Feel that way you made me feel

I'd make the same mistakes, make them twice as bad

If that's what it takes.

Corny, yes. I'm a corny person.

Fanny, I am so so so so so sorry we had to bury you, but I hope you were there to see it, because it was beautiful. And it wasn't one of those funerals where people are calm and collected with eyes that are just a little red, no, we cried, we cried so much that we couldn't breathe; you had been dead for a month and still we all cried so hard that now and again it drowned out the voice of the priest, because that's how broken our hearts were, that's how impossible the thought that you were really gone. And the huge church was filled with family and friends who all love you, crammed, people were standing in the back. You touched the hearts of so many. You changed my life. And I am so grateful. I'm so sorry we had to bury you. I'm so sorry that it's been a year and I still haven't figured out a way to bring you back. But I think about you every second of every minute of every day and there is no way you will ever be forgotten. Ever. If I'm lucky enough to have children, I will tell them all about you and they will feel safe knowing that their godmother is an angel who's watching over their every step.

So: That's how I feel tonight. It's embarrassing and agonizingly pathetic, but that's life. I'll get through this night, I'll get through the next one, and I'll keep gettin through them until the sun rises again and I'll wake up without feeling like I've been stabbed in the heart. And on it goes. The good with the bad and the bad with the good.

Maybe I shouldn't have told you all this, but I have noone else to tell. And you are my friends. However sad that might sound.

All I want is to flee to Hogwarts.

Black velvet leggings and black blazer, Monki. White lace socks, Lindex. Black leather boots, Nilson. Black shirt/dress, Pudel. Belt, Asos.com. Purple/burgundy beret, Åhléns. Brown leather satchel, Vero Moda. My new aaaawesome glasses, "Lucia", Proopticals.com.

(Photos by me.)

The questions is; just how excited can wearing a pair of round eyeglasses make a person? The answer is, apparently, really freakin' excited. I've wanted a pair just like these forever, but when I got new glasses for Christmas last year, I chickened out a chose frames that I thought were a little more average. Then I found these adorable ones at proopticals.com for 20 dollars (!), and, well, now I just have to wait until I can afford putting real lenses in them. (So far, they're nothing but an accessory, since they don't make me any less blind.)

With the exception of the cute round glasses, I'm not especially excited at the moment. Quite the opposite, really. I keep finding myself at crossroads, forced to make decisions I don't feel fit to make, and all I know is that I have to keep moving. Standing still at the same spot is not an option. But how do you make yourself move forward, how do you decide which path to take, when all you want to do is lay in bed with your eyes closed and focus on the sound of your own breathing?

This is all but a new feeling for me. And if there's one thing my past experiences have taught me, it's that baby steps can be a perfectly fine pace. As long as I make the tiniest of decisions, one after the other, everything else eventually becomes a little more clear.

I took one of those baby steps today. I made an appointment with a new therapist, and I will start seeing her next week. I've come to the conclusion that though cognitive behavioral therapy has worked well for me in the past, it's not the right way to go at this point. It has helped me through a lot of emergency breakdowns, taught me ways to live a somewhat decent every day life - but this is not a crisis. I'm not falling to pieces the way I have before, it's less urgent than that. Less urgent, though not any less desperate. I've been depressed for as long as I can remember and I'm not getting better. I can feel a bit better for periods of time, now and then I can distract myself and let other people and situations distract me, but the facts are still facts: I'm sick, I'm unhappy, and I'm terrified that this is the way it's going to be for the rest of my life. That every time I see the light at the end of the tunnel, all that's waiting for me at the end is the entrance of another.

So, I found a psychologist who specializes on psychodynamic psychotherapy, and my goal is to go to the bottom of what's keeping me from experiencing happiness, joy, satisfaction, harmony and balance. Christ, I don't even need to be happy. I just want to wake up in the morning without either feeling like I'm going to die or, worse, wondering if there's any point staying alive. Not just tomorrow and next week but in a year, two, twenty. If that means I'm going back on anti-depressants, so be it. I'm just so tired of being in constant battle with myself. It's exhausting.

With all this talk of being tired - in combination with my new, terrific glasses - I think it's time for another column translation! I wrote this last summer, when I was feeling quite a bit like I am now. If you like my columns, feel free to read it, if not, I won't be offended. Just tell me my glasses are pretty! ;)


I'm so tired.

It's like... like all the air has left my lungs, the way it does a balloon that was forgotten in a dark corner after a five year old's birthday party. Not with a pop nor a bang, but with a slow, inevitable wheeze.

Like I've been awake for months.

That's almost the case. When I get this tired I can't even muster up enough energy to sleep. Last night I thought I'd succeeded - until I woke up at 3:37am from the kind of nightmare that makes going back to sleep impossible.

It's the kind of fatigue that overpowers it all. I lose track of time, feel it slipping through my fingers. This morning I took the communter train into Stockholm, finally on the subway I passed the station I was supposed to get off at - twice in a row. I got on the train, blinked, and several stops had already passed by.

That's how tired I am.

Nothing new about this. The same thing every time I pressure myself a little bit too hard, a little bit too long. Like when you flex a muscle with all your might until the lactic acid kicks in, the muscle starts shivering, shaking, cramping; and when you finally let it relax it feels like you will never, ever in your entire life be able to use it again.

This is what it feels like. Inside my whole body, my soul, all the way through.

I don't want to work, I don't want to eat, clean, get dressed or wash my hair. I do it, because I have to, but I don't want to.

All I want is to flee to Hogwarts.

Only there am I safe.

I have no idea how many times I've read Joanne Kathleen Rowling's books about the young wizard with the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. A lot. Enough times to make every sentence feel like home.

When my Ronnie is done making fun of me for reading "children's books", he always asks: but don't you already know exactly what's going to happen?

He can't seem to understand that this is the whole point.

Each time I open the books, I'm sucked straight into the adventures. I'm pulled into the story, drawn by force, losing myself in everything from complicated homework to the battle against evil. I laugh, cry, get nauseous from all the butterflies going nuts in my stomach as I get closer to the life-or-death fights. But whatever turns the story might take, I never have to fear. I know it will all be okay in the end. And right there, in the safety of that insight, I can finally rest.

But the most spectacular thing about the Harry Potter books has to be the amount of pages. No matter how impossible it seems to take on life in this desperatly non-magical world - when I have plowed through all seven books, suddenly enough time has passed that the worst is over. I find myself waking up in the morning, eating breakfast, washing my hair and sitting down at my desk to work. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

It never fails. I have my suspicions there might be magic involved.

Now I have to get back to my book. Harry is just about to battle a fire-breathing Hungarian Horntail.

I know exactly how it's going to end.

A few more words about depression.

I'm writing this from my iPhone, and since I never tried to post from my cell before, I have no idea how it's going to look or if it's even going to work. But there's no way I can wait until I get home to my laptop.

I am simply blown away by your comments on my last post. I honestly didn't think I'd get one single comment. I figured it was too dark, too personal. That I would scare you away. There are no words to describe how immensely touched I am by the level of compassion and empathy you have showed me. From the bottom of my heart: thank you.

But there's one thing I need to clarify. My depression should not be confused with grief. The loss of my best friend certainly has not made things easier to handle, but it's not the reason. I don't know if there even is a reason behind the way I feel. All I know is that I have been in and out of therapy and on and off meds for twelve years, and that my problems started long before that. I am definitely not implying that people with no history of depression would have an easy time dealing with the death of a loved one, oh gosh no - I'm just saying that for me, personally, this depression goes way, way, way back. And that's also why I'm so scared - if I didn't manage to get well before anything this bad had happened to me, then how am I ever supposed to beat my inner demons now that I've lost the one person I could talk to about everything?

Anyway. It feels sensational to know I have readers - friends - with whom I can share things like these. Don't worry, this is not going to turn into a blog about depression. I don't feel any worse now than I did when I started this blog three months ago. But I'm truly relieved that I won't have to hide this part of myself from you anymore. Because I want to be able to be as honest and open as possible here, I don't want to feel the need to act like things are peachy when they're the exact opposite. From now on, I won't have to stop myself from posting on those really bad days. I have the choice of telling you what's going on instead of keeping it to myself. And that means so much to me. Because I can't stand being alone in all of this. I just can't.

Again, thank you. Your support means more to me than you'll ever know.

Love,
Annika

The D-Word.

How about some Friday night honesty?

Sometimes, when reading your comments, I feel like such a fraud. Mostly when sentences like "wow, you really have the perfect life, don't you?" and "I'm going through such a hard time right now, and it inspires me to know that someone who has gone through similar things can be so happy and well-balanced today" pop up.

I do have a good life. I have a wonderful boyfriend, a loving family, two cats that I love so much my heart aches, a house I adore and a job that lets me spend my days doing the only thing I've ever wanted to do. Of course it's good. Great, even.

But I'm not happy. That's a fact.

I wouldn't say that I'm lying here on the blog - what I write about my life is, of course, true. It's just that the reality is that the truth is so much more complex. I choose to share a part of the truth, a paper thin slice of my life; the rest is kept inside. Most of the time, I'm okay with this. On particularly bad days, I feel like shit for not letting you in on what's really going on.

Today has been one of those particularly bad days.

After a night full of nightmares, I woke up early but couldn't get up. When I say couldn't, I don't mean wouldn't. I don't mean I didn't want to. I mean I could not do it. I couldn't move. This whole week has been difficult, more full of anxieties and worries than usual, and this morning I couldn't do it anymore. I didn't see the point of getting out of bed. I didn't see the point of anything.

On days like these, I'm 100% certain that this is actually what I always feel like. That I simply try so hard to conceal these feelings, even to myself, that I'm able to live a "normal" life - but every time I let my guard down, I'm thrown straight back into the pitch black hole of anguish, agony, misery, hopelessness and despair that is depression. Then I'm entirely convinced that the worst days are the true days. That the days when I feel better are nothing but make believe.

A good thing: I would guess that I'm not too far down the hole yet. This morning, when I felt like the Earth was crumbling beneath me, I didn't feel like I wanted to die. Instead, I wanted to go back in time and just cease to exist. That way, Ronnie and the cats couldn't miss me, since they never even met me. My mom would, a long time ago, have come to terms with the fact that she only has two children. The world would keep turning, new lives would appear as others are blown out like candles, the sun would rise and set and rise again and I wouldn't be aware of any of this. Because I would be a part of nothing, feeling nothing, regretting nothing.

Yes, this is all good. You see, since I don't have access to a time machine, there's not a very vivid possibility that I'll be able to go back in time and carefully remove myself from the face of this planet before anyone gets too attached to me. I might not want to live all of the time, but at least I don't want to die. I have to live with the intensely painful loss of my best friend every moment of every day and I can't stand the thought of putting the people I love through that excruciating experience. And as long as there is life, there is hope.

After spending hours holding me, drying my tears, desperately trying to distract me from the darkness inside, Ronnie got very quiet for a minute and then said: "you know you have to go see a doctor again, right?".

Right. I know.

I need to go see a doctor and tell him or her that I've been struggling with depression for a long, long time, that I thought I'd gotten better but apparently I didn't, or maybe I did get better but hey, surprise, the bitch is back and she's just as determined as always to destroy my life. That I need help. That I can't do it on my own, I've tried and I've failed and I keep trying and I keep failing.

But it's like every time it gets a little bit harder. Partly because seeking professional help means admitting to myself that I'm depressed, partly because each relapse is the result of another failed attempt to get well. You know, I did get help. Then I got help again, again, again, again, again and yet again. And still I'm not sure if there will every come a time when I'm happy.

I keep struggling, though. I try my best to make the most out of the good days, and when the bad ones come, I try to remind myself that yesterday wan't that terrible. I sometimes scroll through the blog, forcing myself to see: hey, look! This is another part of the truth. I wouldn't say you seem that sad here? You might be in hell today, but there's a chance you won't be tomorrow.

I'm going to sleep now. Then I'm going to wake up in the morning, have a light breakfast, drive to yoga class. I'm going to breathe deeply through my nose and tell myself, over and over:

Life may have its ups and downs but no matter where it takes you, it's always worth living.

Maybe this time I'll believe it.