I am not normally a depressed person. I have had, like so many of us, depressive episodes, usually relating to circumstance – in other words, my depression is situational and not necessarily a chemical imbalance. I know people with the chemical imbalance sort and I reckon I’m not one of them. But this week, this month, maybe this year, I have felt pretty low. I’ve previously written about my situation in another post, so you know where I’m at, but at the moment, I’m feeling like I can’t quite climb out of the little muddy pit I’m stuck in.
It’s situational, I keep telling myself. I have a lovely home, a wonderful husband, I am earning money, and I am studying full time. I am mostly quite busy, but at the moment I am struggling to care. I am entering a phase of terrifying ennui. I am aware that if I go for a walk, if I wander outside and if I actually talk to people I may feel better, but I also know that, for me, I have to let this beast run its course. I can’t really afford to leave the house as every time I do it costs me money. For example, the first time I left the house this week (yesterday), I bought lunch, a singing text, some sexy tealeaves and travelled on the bus. The day cost me $100.00. I’m doing it to feel better. But when I spend money I can’t afford I don’t really feel better: I feel worse.
I’m writing this because I think we hide behind our smiles, and just now I don’t feel like smiling. I’d rather be upfront and honest: I am suffering here. Now, if I were REALLY suffering, I wouldn’t be writing about it, I would just be suffering, so I know I have only a minor case of the depressive stuff. But, man! It’s hard to lose this sensation. Depression is beguiling, tempting. Sometimes I just want to take to my bed and not get up. Sometimes I want to roll around in the stuff, revel in my angst, feel melancholic and low, just so I can feel thoroughly Sturm und Drang. I know this sensation. It’s dangerous and addictive. I’m good at beating addiction – I’ve done it before. But wow, this one comes up from nowhere, and I’m not sure how to tackle it. No, that’s not true. I DO know how to tackle it. GO for a walk. Breathe fresh air. Get some sun. Exercise. WORK.
But: I don’t want to leave the house; I want to play computer games; I feel fat and frumpy and old; I feel friendless; I miss my kids; I miss Melbourne (that old tired mantra), I don’t want to do any work; I feel tired; I feel sad and lonely. Depression? You betcha. Will it leave me? Of course. But it’s a bitch when it’s here. An old, miserable, bitching, energy sapping, ugly devil. My bete noir.