In defence of repression

I wonder if I'm always going to be nervous at the first sign of a bad mood. You know, a grumpy morning, a string of swear words heard from another room. Every time J stubs his toe (and reacts in the way that anyone else would) am I going to wonder if this heralds the end of a golden era?

I'm vigilant in a fairly low key way about my own mood. Having suffered from depression in the past I know when I need to step in to stop myself from sinking. And I also know when it's an appropriate level of sadness or just an off day.

But reading someone else is another matter all together. Hypervigilance is such a big part of the prison that is living with a depressed person. I am keen to stop myself from falling into that deep dark hole.

But I'd be lying if I were to say that I can be totally relaxed about things. I am quite afraid that this won't go on for much longer. I'm worried that it might be a bit like the start of a holiday, long dreamt of, saved up for, hardly dared hope for. And then before you know it you're back at work and it's behind you.
I have this very vivid memory from when I was nine. I was on my way to the pool. I had looked forward to it all week. And as I was walking down the hall, swimmers on, the smell of chlorine already in my nostrils I suddenly thought, but soon I'll be on my way back up this same hall, on my way home, my swim in the past.

And then (because I must have been one hell of a neurotic nine-year-old) I wondered if this is what it would be like to be suddenly 80 years old. One day I'm nine with countless years ahead and a very short while later I am in fact looking back down that hall at my nine-year-old self.

I have tried hard to forget that thought so of course it's taken up residence just on the periphery of my day-to-day and every now and again, like a recurring cold sore, it replays itself, reminding me that each day brings me closer to its fulfilment.

Of course as I get older I rather hope that I'll get to 80 and that I'll still be remembering things. But for now I wish there was some kind of filing cabinet I could put it in or some device that allowed it out only when it was going to be useful rather than just make make me sweat a little, breathe a bit faster and fret needlessly.

I could of course file my current fear about J's depression returning in the same drawer. I'll stick the folder under R for repressed or N for neurosis.

Then I'll stop having administrative fantasies (it's been pretty much downhill since 1984).

Flo