It seems a bit daft, putting that as a blog title, as I am in effect writing the letter I can’t write. Maybe I should have written the ‘Letter I wish I could Send’ or ‘letters’, maybe it should be letters.
I wish I could write a letter to my husband to articulate just what is going on inside my head. How I have these horrible thoughts but they are just thoughts and I would never act on them. Just so he could understand why my mood can change so dramatically and why I am so anxious all of the time. I just want him to be able to understand my anxiety, depression and panic attacks. I am tired of hiding it.
I also want him to see how much pressure I am under. How being the sole breadwinner places a huge burden on me, especially when my mental health is already so delicate. I need him to understand that if he got a job, any job, it would help me so much. It would relieve some of the immense pressure I am under. I think he thinks I have it easy. I go to work full time and don’t have to do school runs or tea but I have it all when I get home. The moment I walk through the door they become my responsibility because I have been at work. They are mine until they go to bed, which is getting later and later as they get older. But I have to do this because I have been to work all day and he has been at home with them. Despite the eldest being at school all day and the youngest all afternoon.
I also want to be able to tell my friends how I am feeling. How I have planned ways to die. How the weight of so much responsibility is crippling me. But I can’t. We share friends, so to say this would be implying that my husband isn’t pulling his weight and that I am speaking badly of him. I wouldn’t want them to look at him knowing what I had said and for it to affect their relationship with him. Or for them to say something to him that I might have said in confidence. So I say nothing. Of course the depression also takes my voice away and doesn’t let me speak, so even if there wasn’t the sharing of friends to deal with, I am not sure I could speak in the first place.
I have gotten better at opening up. I can admit when I am struggling but that’s about it. People know when I am sad but not to the extent that the depression can hit me. And I haven’t admitted the eating to anyone close. I wish my husband could know this. I wish my friends could know the extent to which I suffer. But I can’t let them in. I can’t let anyone in.
And this is why I can’t write these letters and I don’t think I ever will.