There’s nothing new here, nothing to learn that I don’t already know. No fresh description. I've exhausted allegory, and that is saying something. I am out of metaphors for this absolutely horrific shit. (When out of metaphors, it is best to use cuss words for emphasis)
No, I didn't see it coming this time. Well, sort of. I had glimpses. I was surely manic about the clean slate of New Year’s, which was of course an invitation. But holy fuck…that really escalated quickly! We’re talking work (kinda) from bed, in jammies, all day. Forgive me Depression for I have sinned…it’s been four days since my last shower.
A dear friend reminded me of words I’d shared with her during an episode of her own: “I see you’re listening to that bitch Depression.” Actually, her telling me that this was helpful at the time was a ray of light. To feel helpful…useful…to feel like your existence does in fact yield some positive influence in the world. It’s novel. Because Depression (the aforementioned bitch) is whispering the opposite. She is listing in excruciating detail the evidence of all of my failures. I’ll stop short of saying “they’d be better off without me” – I assume because the Welbutrin/Zoloft cocktail is, in fact, doing something – but it’s pretty fucking close.
Last night my darling daughter said to me “Are you feeling well today Mom? If you’re up to it, could you please get me some apple juice? It’s okay if you don’t feel well today.” Seriously. For all the Pema Coldron books in the world, there is no way to SIT with that. Acceptance…would be blasphemy. Embracing my powerlessness to change that - heresy. I’m pretty sure they’ll revoke my Mommy card for even trying.
My house is disgusting. Like, Hoarders style. Yes, I realize that everyone’s house looks like that right after Christmas, but I feel reasonably certain mine will look this way well into April. Also, the crock-pot full of once-soapy water that’s been in my sink for 4 days is probably over the top. I refuse to even look at the litter box. I don’t want to know.
My long-suffering fiancé. I can’t even.
So…the reminder is of course that it will pass. It always does. But even that – it will pass, but then it will fucking come back again! What the hell’s the use of that? This bitch will not stay away. It doesn't matter how many drugs I throw at her – prescribed or recreational. All the yoga in the fucking world…nothing. Gluten-free, meditation, cleanse? Bitch please.
There’s nothing to do but ride it out. Look hard for glimpses of joy, acknowledge them. Minimize the damage to my loved ones as best I can, and forgive myself for the rest.