Sometimes I find it so distressing that I am, once again, fighting melancholy. It happens so often.
“How often is often?” you ask…let’s say an average of 3 – 6 days a week.
“That’s kind of fucked up,” you might think.
Yes, yes it is.
And this is me on medication.
And this is me with the strength of a fucking ox.
This is me, sitting in my bed, wanting to crawl under the covers, maybe watch Mean Girls, or maybe that would take too much effort and I could just absent-mindedly surf Facebook taking tests to find out who my mythological spirit animal is, but instead, I am writing this, knowing that as soon as I hit “publish” I will get up, go downstairs, help with dinner, play with the dog (who will definitely know that I am faking it) and act like everything is fine.
And it will be for a while – it will get my mind off of…my mind. No one will know the Herculean will that it has taken to eat a steak, fresh off the steer and grilled to perfection just for me. No one will know the craving I have for solitude and escape
Why not just give in to it tonight?
A myriad of reasons, most of which boil down to shame or fear.
I am ashamed for anyone to know that I feel this blue when nothing has happened today to make me feel this way.
I am embarrassed for MCB who is generally very content, to see me like this for no apparent reason.
I am afraid that if he does know how I feel tonight, he will, like my ex-husband, decide that I am either psychosomatic or just a drag and leave.
I am afraid for my children to see me sad because they were witness to my nervous breakdown years ago and I never want them to have to either worry about or navigate through that again.
Which leads to the holy terror that I feel when I think that letting go, giving in, for even one evening, will cause a spiral into the depths of mental and emotional hell and that I don’t know if I will ever be able to crawl out again.
I am afraid if I take or do anything to escape that I won’t be “dealing with my feelings” which will result in my severe dysfunction as an adult along with a full-blown drug addiction.
I am afraid that if I give in, it means that the medication that I do take isn’t working, that my sadness is too much for it.
I am ashamed that I am medicated.
I am ashamed of what others would think of me if they knew the truth.
I am afraid of others expressing their opinions to me, about me.
My desire to check out and sit on my ass is mortifying in a world where my friends are always game to do something. It shames me that I would rather hide in my bedroom than spend the evening with my fabulous children. I fear that if I do actually do that, then tomorrow something will happen to one of them and I will forever live with the guilt that I wasted this night “feeling sorry for myself.”
So, I’m wrapping up this post; I can smell the grill. Guess I’m going to go play with the dog.