It looks like the writing might be helping me with the depression. I have only written two posts and already I am starting to lose interest in expressing my depression.
Until the lonely nights come. My husband is out of town. I am here with the kid by myself. Even though I haven’t been in the desperate state I was in when I started this blog, I know that so many of my actions are counter productive to healing and yet I can’t stop them.
So, the husband isn’t here but instead of taking advantage of it and organizing something fun to do , I chose to sequester myself away. I didn’t engage my ‘friends’. I took my night and said its worthless so why try to make it worthwhile.
A week of feeling better. A week of not wanting to write. I was laying in bed when I felt the hopelessness hit me like a punch from Mohammad Ali. The tears welled up in my eyes and I forced the shakes back.
Because I was aware that the writing had released some of the depression infection, I arose from my bed to release a bit more. May this writing remove these thoughts from my head and let me have peace enough to sleep tonight.
With all this crap running around in my head, I can’t ignore the fact that I am coming into an age when my hormones will change. I’m not yet forty. Still I have to ask, how much of this change is just from my plumbing wearing out. Afterall, perimenopause, “the transition”, can start in the thirties.
So, really the question is or the questions are how do I know? How long do I deal with it? When can I start buying red hats?
Then the scary part, what if it isn’t The Transition? How do I get people to take me seriously instead of judging me by my age? It’s like the episode from Everybody Loves Raymond when Ray buys Debra OTC pills for her PMS and she basically says you think PILLS for PMS are going to fix you being an idiot?
Find the truth, don’t just assume it’s my hormones.
In college, I laid on a grimy basement floor of a badly kept rental house sobbing hysterically for an hour or more. Not a single roommate came to see what was happening. I was in the depths of unhappiness and depression.
At some point, I got up off the floor and got out of depression.
Today, I’m not laying in filth crying for attention but I’m afraid I’m heading down that same dark path.
I’m depressed. I’m struggling with obesity and it seems like I couldn’t save two pennies if my life depended upon it.
I realized a while back that writing helps remove thoughts that otherwise consume me. This isn’t so bad when the thoughts are about daisies and cherub faces. It becomes a compounding problem when you focus on your failures and are unable to see a way out.
I’m clambering to get out of the deep, dark depression. I might be dragging myself along but up has to be better than laying in the swallows at the bottom forefeeling my existence vanishing.