This morning I heard the bells of the church across the street ring five times. What that means is that I was awake prior to five, most likely opening my eyes for good sometime around 4:45. This has been my pattern of late -- falling asleep on the couch before 9, and then rising way too early -- and I don't know how to get out of it. Going to bed late does not mean I will magically sleep until seven.
I'm feeling way dysthymic. Blogger doesn't register that word, and so as I type, it remains underlined in red, driving me mad.
For those of you with little knowledge of mental health terms (be grateful, really), this means I'm about knee-deep in a depressive funk. I've been that way for several weeks now, coming out here and there, but mostly remaining in it. I sequester myself, hurrying to and from events, wanting to get out and simultaneously dreading it. I try to force myself to do things, chanting my pathetic mantra: I will do this, I will do this, I will do this. But it all seems too much.
This morning, my daughter's preschool is having a fair. I volunteered to make something baked, and you have no idea, it was like I signed up Dinner Impossible, and my task was to scour a forest for ingredients and then create an entire meal for a wedding party of 200. And I'm like, what the fuck can I make with tree bark?
Sometimes I think I should be in therapy. Except there really are no issues. So it would be a tragic rehashing of the story of yet another relatively privileged, lucky person, expressing their discontent.
Therapist: So what brings you in to see me?
Me: What do you call it when you don't ever feel like doing anything, ever?
Me: Dude. Ouch.
I wish this dysthymia came along with zero appetite. During my last major depression, I got down to 116 pounds. It was great.
Wait. No it wasn't. Because I couldn't leave my bed. Forget I mentioned it.
You should have seen me yesterday, mopping up the brownie batter left in the mixing bowl. I used strawberries to do it.
My husband is already outside, putting me to shame with his industriousness. I had a load of clean laundry in the dryer for a week.
If you meet me out and about, and I seem fine, go with it. If you meet me out and about, and I start crying uncontrollably, I give you permission to slink away and pretend you don't know me.