January 7, 2013

hi, internet.

I don't really have much to say. I don't even know how things are. things are extremely, distressingly bleak, and then, mysteriously, they are fine.

some moments -- like, I don't know, twelve hours ago -- I have to fight an oppressive urge to crawl into bed and lie there for the rest of time. I have recently stood in the center of my bedroom and stated, out loud to no one, "I don't know the meaning of my life." I have spent an alarming number of hours curled into my big chair, staring at the bare branches out my window, realizing that I sat in the exact same position in the summer and fall, watching the leaves turn from green to gold, to brown, to dust. just sitting. I suppose it could be seen as a kind of meditation but to me it just feels stuck.

conversely I have sat at my desk at home and thought idly, "I really need to go hang upside down off some monkey bars soon," which, if that's not a distilled version of myself, well, I don't know what is.

this morning I wrote to my doctor and said, "please prescribe me an antidepressant." so, that's news.

it's funny how we can be so kind to the people we love but struggle to extend ourselves the same kindnesses. even knowing this doesn't really help me. do I still get to think of myself as a badass if I have to take wellbutrin to get there? I know what the answer to this question would be if any of my best ladies asked it, but here I am asking it anyway.

sometimes it occurs to me that there are people who exist in the world who get up and make coffee and eat toast and maybe get their kids dressed and put them on the school bus, and they do it without thinking it's so hard. those people are a real mystery to me. also they are the reason one calls one's doctor and says, "please prescribe me an antidepressant."

more and more frequently I have daydreams where I just sell everything and become a park ranger. I think I'd look good in the hat.

am I selling my horse. I still don't know this. I cannot imagine life without her, except sometimes I do imagine life without her, with free weeknights and no guilt about 'I should be at the barn' and no sadness that I haven't trained her better and no board or barn drama. extra time on my hands to learn new skills. and money.

and then I think of saying the sentence "I sold my horse" out loud and I start to cry and the decision just hangs and hangs in the air.

I'm doing this diet challenge this month -- whole30, you've probably heard of it -- not so much because I was super interested in changing my diet (although I am, to a point) or because I am trying to lose weight (although all my pants are too tight) but because I thought that one way to combat depression was to prove to myself, willingly, that I was capable of doing something hard. I thought, "I'll give up bread and cheese and booze and sugar" (SUGAR YOU GUYS) "and at the end of it I will be able to say that I did something hard." except then a few nights ago I was crying in the car over the same old thing I've been crying about since august and I thought, "of course you can do something hard, you idiot, you've been doing nothing but hard for the last half a year." and then I look at this choice I'm facing with Cookie and I realized that you don't get to pick your hard thing. and maybe we're all too hard on ourselves and instead I should be proving to myself that I can let myself not do anything at all.


  1. You'll always be a badass. You wouldn't hesitate to take medication if you were diabetic, right? Giving your brain chemistry a reboot is not a weakness.

    But I know how HARD it is to ask for that. My hat is off to you.

  2. I have so been there -- it was hard and weird and good and sad to write that exact email to my doctor. And yet I credit my medication (same one, in fact!) with that miraculous climb out of the darkness that took place for me last year. Yes there were a lot of other factors. But there's no denying that when you've sat at that window again, or in my case, stared down that bathtub with one beautiful daughter and all my sadness in it, you need a ladder to climb. Or something to remind you that ladders exist, or that climbing is a thing. I hope it does help, Jess. I'm sorry about Cookie, about the hardness of the decision, no matter which way it goes. I know you will get through it.

  3. thank you, my dear. yes, it is really hard in my present state to even remember that ladders exist. it is good to hear from people who say, "medicine really does help," because of course my feeling lately is that nothing will ever help me and I'll just be sad forever. the curse of depression is how it's so difficult to explain to anyone who hasn't been there. I want to scream to the universe that it isn't laziness that's keeping me in my bed -- it's terror and despair and hopelessness. it's so hard. I really appreciate reminders that it is not forever. xoxo.