I’m afraid you were depressed – even though it could be a bonding and educational relationship for us both.

But I’m afraid you were depressed.

(And I’m afraid to tell you I was depressed and stll struggle with depression/anxiety.Which is totally ridiculous becuase I tell the world here (or, like 12 of you). I mean, I spill everything about my struggles with the lowest of my days from years ago. And yet . . . )

I’m afraid to tell you I still struggle with depression/anxiety because I’m afraid you’ll tell me you do as well. Which is silly, because you might be able to help me cope. You might even reveal you still struggle.

I’m afraid to tell you all this because I fear that you were depressed and managed it better than I did. I’m afraid that you didn’t sink as low as me. That you held it together better. That you didn’t neglect your house, your husband, your friends, yourself, your children, like I did.

I’m afraid that when you say, “I was depressed, too.” And tell me your story I’m going to think, “No. No I cannot share. Because now you will know the truth. You will know why we weren’t friends so many years ago. You will know why our girls weren’t friends from birth. You will know why my house is still being remodeled. You will know why my kids misbehave. I was depressed and let things get so out of control that I’m only now regaining control.”

I’m afraid of these things and so many more.

I’m so afraid that you were depressed.