In the past three weeks, damned near everyone I know has insinuated (sp?) at least once that I'm depressed. Last night David introduced the subject over Indian, and opened with, "So, your mom happened to mention when I talked to her that you've gone off the Welbutrin."

What the fuck? My MOM tells my best friend that I've gone off the anti-depressants? What the fuck is this shit?

My sister is making occupational decisions for me that make me out to be more invalid than competent worker, my father is freaked that I don't always answer the phone and I keep my blinds drawn when I'm home during the day (I've started opening them now), my mom makes hints every time I talk to her, and is evidently now recruiting my friends into her plight to get me back on meds, and my fucking personal trainer, who just had a biopsy on a lump in her breast, is back on her feet and wants me back in the gym pronto.

And me? I've been trying to tell myself that I'll get through this...that it's just a phase. That I just need to get through this next dayweekmonthseasonyear, and I'll be right again.

Meanwhile, I could fucking shoot them all. Mostly because I know they're right, and I've been doing my damndest to try and stop it, get help, and slow shit down to a tolerable speed, but I just can't seem to do any of that. And I get more frustrated by the minute.

Today I finally called in a refill for my shots, which I haven't taken in almost two months. I also called and set an appointment with my neurologist to talk over the new treatment that everyone wants me to get on. Fucking neuro can't see me for another month. What the shit is that?

I did not call for an appointment with my GP. That was just too much for one day. Too much medical shit. But I know I need to call and do that tomorrow. I know. It probably won't happen for another week, because I have bills to pay tomorrow and that's probably going to be all I can handle after another weekly meeting with my dad, but whatever. I'll keep it on the To Do list until I can muster the energy to do it. I know I need to ask someone to put me back on the goddamned anti-depressants, okay? I know. I'll do it. I just can't get it all done at once. I can't handle the slightest stress or I fall apart. I feel like a fucking incompetent at EVERYTHING.

Last night I wound up staying at David's new place. It was the first time I've shared a bed with anyone in over a year, and my inexperience was painfully apparent. David curled up into me and said, "It's been a loooong time since we've done this...curled up together." I felt like a bumbling fool, all arms and bones and fidgets and all I wanted to do was wrap his arms around me like I used to and giggle with him and sleep curled up with him.

And I wanted to cry and break down and tell him everything and how he's right, I should never have gone off the meds and I'm in trouble and I can't handle life anymore, it's all just too much of a burden. But instead, I just lay there trying to make us comfortable and enjoy being warmed by another body next to me instead of by a body pillow and twelve blankets. It was dilectably miserable. Cozily, agonizingly alienating. I loved being there and hated not being able to really BE there.

When will all of this end? When will it be normal again? I told David last night (before he brought up the Welbutrin...and by the way, what the FUCK was my mom thinking???) about my new dating fantasy: I'm seriously considering putting up an ad that says, "Look, I'll make you a deal. I know I'm not that much of a looker right now, but that's just because I have to work for a living. I can be really hot if I only had the money and the time to work out and eat right. So, here it is: You put me up in your place, and you keep me fed, clothed, and monied up so that I can take care of myself the way a proper trophy wife should, and I'll promise to keep myself up, keep you satisfied, and be happy as a clam for the rest of our lives. Email me if this sounds like something you can handle."

And that would be it. I could be a kept woman for the rest of my life. Why not? I wouldn't work, I wouldn't stress out. I'd just have a great time at the spa and the gym, spend the rest of my time shopping and napping and fucking my husband, and what's so wrong with that?

David looked at me like I'd gone off the deep end. But the thing is this: I'm tired. And I'm old. And I don't want to play around anymore. I don't need notoriety. I don't need the crazy life or the big fast life. I just need peace and quiet and stability and to know that I'm taken care of. I don't need the romance. I don't need the chemistry. I just want to not have to deal with having all this shit to do while also having the insane cowardice to not ask for help. I just want someone to help me with the shit I need and not talk to me about it.

I don't know. When did doing nothing get to be so difficult? When did living a low-stress life get to be so stressful? When did scaling down my life get to be so gut-wrenchingly awful? I'm crying again at random times in my own apartment for no reason except that I'm pretty sure I could be loveable if I could just get outside.

Then when I get outside I'm so tired I don't know what to do with myself.

I know I need to get back on the meds. I know. I'll call tomorrow.

Posted by twids at 10:36 pm