Over the years I have come to think of my depression as a kind of annoying pet I didn't want. It's always there. Sometimes it is completely asleep, and letting me do my own thing. Other times it just kind of brushes up against me to let me know it's there. Or it will stick out one sharp claw and prick me, just drawing a bead of blood, making sure it has my full attention, even if only for a moment. And then there are times like now, when it feels like I am being crushed in it's jaws.
How I wish I could take the fucking thing to the pound.
I feel almost immobilized by it. It is an honest effort to just keep going. It will call my attention to the smallest thing, make me look at it, and then push me down. Take, for example, today. I noticed Meg's hair had residue in it from a styling product, because I hadn't taken the time to go out and get the good styling product. Annnnnd, we're off! I'm a bad mom. I'm horrible to Ryan. I'm a bad friend. I drink too much. I haven't done enough with my career. I haven't ever finished anything I've started. The house is a mess. We will never sell our house because of the swamp in the back. I will never be thin. I will never be famous. I will never be respected. I'm 36 in a world where every person of value is under 29. I have a blog.
It doesn't matter that in the midst of this there is a part of my mind that knows what's going on. That knows I'm spiraling, and that is trying to stop the descent. That part is so small though, and so powerless over the depression that it's like fighting a Chihuahua and a Doberman; an idea so horrible I can't even find a video of it on You Tube.
Oh, and I've just now convinced myself that a blog about depression is quite possibly the most useless thing on the planet.
Maybe I should do an interpretive dance instead.
Now, that would be really depressing.