It’s not that nothing is going on, really. I just can’t seem to finish an entry no matter what I do. I also can’t seem to return emails or finish vacuuming my house. I have five saved drafts of half-finished entries right above the box where I’m typing this and I keep going back and trying to finish them and I just can’t.
So I thought I’d fall back on an old standard, the ten minute writing exercise. I have to do something to get the habit going again and this has worked well in the past. I’ll type for ten minutes and I’ll post whatever comes out, unedited except for fixing typos.
The power just blinked. Weird.
I just broke a rule because there was originally a different sentence here, but I got halfway through it and went back and deleted it because I decided I didn’t feel like writing about that after all.
I suspect that part of the problem is that I, like an asshole, allowed my mood stabilizing medication to run out because I have to have my doctor authorize refills and I don’t feel like calling him because I’m pretty sure we need to change the dosage somehow and it’s a conversation I don’t feel like having even though I need to have it. I began what should have been a detailed, heartfelt entry about this last night and could never get it into postable form, even though I worked on it in fits for almost two hours. The upshot is this: I need the medicine but I hate that I need the medicine and so I keep trying not to need it but it doesn’t work, which means that every six months or a year or so, I let it run out and decide to try living without it and it never ends well. I wanted to write about how ashamed of myself I am for being such an advocate for depression education while being too embarrassed to write about my own struggles with it. I wanted to write about these lengthy conversations I’ve had with friends and family where I encourage them to stick with the medication even when it doesn’t seem to be working, and where I tell them that they aren’t failures for needing to take medication, and that depression is a disease just like diabetes or high blood pressure and that it’s treatable and there’s no shame in seeking treatment for it, but all the while I secretly feel like I am a failure for needing to take it.
And then I end up where I am now, unhappy and unable to focus, increasingly erratic and having more and more trouble getting out of bed every day, but hoping against hope it’ll just go away this time because I’m sick of taking pills every day and I’m sick of going to the doctor and I’m sick of talking about it and I’m also sick of feeling this way.