I’ve been avoiding writing this because I don’t know where to start, or what to say that hasn’t been said so many times before. No one reads this blog anymore (neglect is the damnedest thing, am I right?) so the motivation to write here is…just kind of not there. Until now.
I am, I believe, in the vise grips of a bout with depression. It’s hard to say right now whether I’m at the beginning or the middle, but for damn sure I’m not at the end. I started having panic attacks again about 6 weeks ago. At the time I was working a full schedule (as opposed to the summer schedule I’m on now), finishing up the semester and working like a nut. I was the good kind of busy but there was a buzzing in the back of my head, something nagging at my brain, like a gnat stuck back there somewhere looking for an open window. Or a banana. I couldn’t put my finger on it and for a quick second I thought Summer schedule! That’s it! The break I need, the time to myself THE WONDER OF A MINI VACATION! Not so much, it turns out.
With more time on my hands it became easier to practice the behavior I so love: avoidance. I could avoid the laundry, the chores, the showers, the phone calls, the anything-requiring-motivation. So I did. I stayed up all night, took very long naps during the day – sometimes morning and afternoon – and counted the hours until BB came home from work. I didn’t help with dinner (not so unusual), but this time I didn’t really feel guilty. I cried and cried and cried, shook with anxiety and fear and called my blessed friend who understands and always picks up the phone.
I saw my doctor last week and she suggested I get back into therapy, which she suggested last time, which was 6 months ago. You see how well I follow directions. She didn’t change my medication, but she did suggest I go to an osteopath for a long overdue check up. I have the name and phone number. I don’t have an appointment.
Therapy starts again this Thursday and I’m crossing my fingers that it helps, but I’m not holding out much hope. Three years ago in the throes of the worst panic attacks of my life, I felt hyped up and manic. I felt anxious and nervous and like I might burst into tiny pieces at any second. I felt my heart jumping over and over and knew I was dying every few minutes. This time, I feel hopeless and miserable. I feel all the things on the depression commercials and then some. I don’t want my naps to end and I’m only hungry for disgusting junk food, which makes me feel worse. I cry ALL THE TIME and mainly I hate everyone. (I’m 100% not pregnant, so thanks anyway.) Long walks would make me feel better, yes? Ah, but long walks require real clothes and leaving the house.
If you’re anything like me, you’re thinking Get your lazy ass UP OFF THE COUCH, put on some pants and DO SOMETHING ALREADY GODAMMIT. I’m so right there with you.
I wish that, when the phone occasionally rings, I could answer it and say “Yes! I’d love to have lunch/dinner/drinks/movies/conversations with you!” but instead I just don’t answer. I can’t listen to myself make another lame excuse about why I can’t – and don’t care to – leave the house.
The days I’m at work are okay. I can concentrate on the tasks I need to complete, I am forced to interact with other people and I actually shower. It’s the days I’m home alone that my stomach starts to churn and I oscillate between panic and utter desperation. I want to feel better. I take everything my doctor prescribes just as I should. So why does this happen?
Why can’t I be normal?