Let the madness begin!
Happy first day of March, everyone. In like a lion! Rawr!
Okay, let me get to it.
I read a Buzzfeed article this morning when I woke up based on Tumblr posts about depression, and some of the points made was like a physical slap to the face and made me cry, because fuck Folgers in your cup as the best part of waking up; try a good goddamn soul-shaking cry at 6:00 a.m.
Here’s the thing: I don’t necessarily think I’m “cured” of my depression…I don’t take any medication for it anymore, and haven’t for about three years, save the three or so months I was on Effexor and then Wellbutrin after my hysterectomy last June because I was having a heck of a time with hormones being all whackadoo. It’s because I think I’m somewhat better equipped in my ripe old age of 33 and a half years to deal (and I use that word very loosely) with my symptoms.
Or so I thought until yesterday.
I’ve noticed a peculiar pattern the last four months: since my father’s diagnosis with cancer and his starting chemo, the week of his chemo, I get into a funk, which I feel is solely empathy-based for him. He dreads it because lately, he’s been getting severely ill a day after his treatments, so in turn, I dread it for him, but I also try very hard to be extremely positive and get him to laugh about dumb things while we’re traveling to Omaha for chemo, while we’re sitting in the waiting room, etc. It helps both of us to laugh like idiots at silly things when we’re in a place as somber as an oncology office. For the most part, I think it works.
Dad’s chemo is every other Thursday, and I usually leave him midday Friday per his request as he’s exhausted and just wants to rest and mainly because he feels awful that I’m “doing so much for him,” which I think is silly. I don’t think I’m doing enough, but whatever. So, the pattern I’m noticing is that by Saturday after chemo, I get into a tremendous funk. That’s the day when everything catches up with me emotion-wise and I just let those emotions manifest in different ways. Sometimes, I’m more angry and passive aggressive about things, and I act like a damn cunt to people, but mostly, I’ll just cry at anything. For example, I’m playing that goddamn Trivia Crack game and the person I was playing against denied my request for a new game. What did I do? I cried about it. Early yesterday evening, I went to Target to get a few things and I was looking at the shoe section because I admit I was doing some retail therapy, but the shoe section was kind of picked over and bare and I didn’t cry about that, but it did make me sad. Plus, the fact I was aware I was using this shopping trip as a form of therapy also made me sad.
But I also had a fair amount of aggression yesterday, as well. I’m looking after a friend’s three dogs and house while she and her boyfriend are out of town for a few days, and then my housemate texted me around 6 pm last night asking if I’d also look after the dogs at home, and I got pissed off at that for no good reason other than I wanted to get pissy about something…well, and two of the three dogs at our house are fucking jerks and one of them refuses to come inside despite the fact it was in the teens last night and I may have yelled at it, “Fine! I hope you fucking freeze to death!”
Anger issues much?
What’s my point? I don’t know, really. I guess I’m just writing this stuff down to help me understand what’s going on with my brain or whatever.
Like I said, I don’t think I’m cured at all. I know I’m not. And again as I said, I do think I’m better ready to handle this stuff. Joining the gym was a really smart move on my part, I think. Not only have I lost 17 pounds so far, but exercise is a proven aid in helping fight depression symptoms. I won’t get all science-y on you, but something about brain chemicals and yeah and science!
It truly does help, though. I can be in a shit mood before I do to the gym, then I’ll sweat my fat butt off for an hour and I’ll leave with a general well feeling…and a wicked case of stinky feet, but that’s a different story. You may ask yourself why didn’t I go to the gym yesterday when I started feeling angry? Well, sillies, I had already been there in the morning and it was like, 6:30 and the gym closes at 7pm on Saturday nights. But believe me–I definitely thought about it and cursed the hours of operation.
I am going this morning. I don’t feel as hostile and powder keg-ish as I did last night, but I can feel residual effects lingering, so it’s best I again haul my fat and slightly achy butt to the gym as soon as I’m done writing this.
In summary, I still have depression; it still kicks me in my face every now and again; I still have a fat butt; the gym is great (especially on Sunday mornings because everyone is at church. Ha ha! I don’t believe in god, so I get first dibs on the best machines. Ha ha!).
As always and usual, thanks for reading.