This morning, I opened my eyes and felt absolutely no earthly desire to get up. It was at this point that I began to count back the last week: trouble sleeping, trouble staying asleep, no will power, no desire for anything, feeling dull, feeling listless… OH HAI, DEPRESSION HOW IZ U? To be completely frank, I have no idea why the hell it took me this long to realize it. I have more than a passing relationship with it, so WTF?
Of course, the biggest issues with being depressed are the fact that (A) wallowing is bad, (B) wallowing is bad, and (C) wallowing is ba-a-a-ad. And for the hard of hearing, or perhaps, more like the people with bad eyesight: WALLOWING IS BAD. I figure if I keep telling myself these things I might actually believe it one day. So far? No dice.
To be perfectly frank, I despise the whole depression bit. I’d like to say this has everything to do with weakness and being strong. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I fucking hate it because it gets the gods damned fucking way.
I mean, shit. If I put on a slinky number and waltz around doing my best Dita Von Teese impression, my depression (henceforth known as D-bag-shun or DBS for short) will look around, sniff in an unimpressed way just prior to saying, “honey, you need to lose 20 pounds before that will work.” Or, if I’m happily maintaining my diet and ignoring the chocolate in my house, DBS says, “sweetie, the chocolate isn’t bad for you! All the doctors say so!” And then ten pounds are magically added… to my ass… because I thought about eating it.
It’s a vicious fucking cycle.
With a slapdash of evil on the side.
I work very hard to keep myself doing things. I clean the house and I take care of TS (which is ten times harder now that he thinks he should be asserting his independence—and let me just say: IT’S NOT TIME FOR THAT YET DAMNIT). I do the laundry and I keep my hands and head busy. I do the dishes a thousand times a day and carefully plan out what I’m going to eat through the day so that I’m less likely to break my diet (BUT WHO CARES BECAUSE DBS WILL REMIND ME THAT THERE IS ICE CREAM IN THE FREEZER THAT WON’T MAKE ME FATTER EVEN THOUGH IT WILL). I write out scenes and blog entries in my head. I focus on my religion and where I want it to go. I check my websites and my E-mail and I take long walks. I try really fucking hard to not be depressed, so it’s really fucking irritating when I wake up with it smacking me in the face…
…with a giant black dildo, a heart painted in pink splattered across the tip.
I’ve been trying to do the silver lining thing, too, even though I read somewhere that it’s actually bad for you. I keep telling myself that things aren’t as bad as all of that. And even though my imagination is very good—you think the shit out of a Wes Craven flick is scary? Enter my head; go on, I dare ya—I keep trying to look at the brighter side of things. I keep reminding myself that we’ve got food on the table (thanks to state aid), the lights and gas are on (thanks to what was left in my bank account), rent is paid in full (until tomorrow), and I have a healthy kid (until I duct-tape his mouth shut). So, things are good! They’re great! Yay! Yippee…
And I’m the first bitch that you turn to when shit turns bad. I mean, I have a fucking plethora of happy-go-lucky horse shit that I can spew out in a pinch. I mean, if you need comfort? I am the gal for you. I have advice all over the place, stashed in crevasses that I didn’t even know existed. If you are having relationship woes, you come to me because I can make you smile. Money troubles? Come and knock on my door. I won’t be able to lend you money, but I’ll get you drunk enough to forget that you have money problems. Stressed the fuck out and nowhere to go? As long as you don’t mind an old incontinent dog, a kid who never shuts up, a
boy hubby who sits on the computer until all hours, and a bald dog that loves to lick your nose? You can crash on my couch for a night or two… before you run away screaming. Me? This bitch right here? I am the go-to gal for good advice and happy expressions that mean next to nothing. Plus… hullo? Booze! (I’m at tequila only presently, so I hope you like shots without a lemon wedge.)
So, you know, DBS can just go fuck itself because I’m full of awesomeness all over the fucking place. I ooze awesome and no, it’s not an infection, I swear.
Except, that. You know. I can say that I am awesome and that I rock and that I am the most together person this side of the hemisphere. And sometimes, that might actually be true. However, even the strongest tree branch breaks at some point or another. And this ball busting bitch is ready to just about say, “Fuck this!” And run the fuck away from it all. You know, not that I have (WHAT THE SHIT IS THAT? IT’S A FUCKING MOSQUITO IN MY HOUSE. IN. MY. HOUSE. IN NOVEMBER. WHAT THE SHIT IS THAT?!) anywhere that I can really run away to. I’m too into the responsibility thing, you know, what with being a parent and all of that, plus being the only responsible human being in a two thousand mile radius that will take care of Jasmine and Sweet Pea. Oh, yeah, that’s right. I am the only one who deals with anything dog-related because I am the only person who, you know, has a brain around here.
Okay. That was uncalled for. However, you know, I’m pent-up and ready to fucking asplode all over the keyboard here. (And no, I’m not talking about the pleasant type of explosions, either.)
So, here I am. I’m taking stock and I feel more than a little out of control with this: I am a twenty-eight year old divorced woman who has a three-year-old son. That three-year-old would rather eat his own hand than listen to me. I have no job. I have no help with home responsibilities. (And as a stay-at-home person, I feel that is mostly okay.) I have a car that kind of functions, but needs a quart of oil every 1000 miles… and no idea where the oil goes. I am freaking the fuck out because I have no job and no way to pay bills. I have no fucking idea if and when I will be receiving unemployment payments. There won’t be any fucking Christmas for anyone in this damned fucking household because of said monetary issues. I’m alone. I’m scared. I’m tired. I want to cry. But, you know, on the bright side: I have nails that are [poorly] painted gold!
I think this is the point where I start hyperventilating and pass out for three minutes. Excuse me. nhnhnhnhnhnhnhnhnhnhnhnhcx <- That would be my head having hit the keyboard.
I'm pretty much at the breaking point. So, something has got to give. If it's me, there is going to be a really unpleasant screaming fit in the next forty-eight hours. If it's something else, well, that's fucking awesome because at least I'll be able to conserve my voice for yelling at my son.