Lying in Wait

Today was a pretty harrowing one, depression-wise, and I've noticed it has been getting worse.  My unwillingness to get out of bed has been steadily escalating.  And while I've really been enjoying the sleeping-in part of being unemployed, I am generally able to get up and moving by around 10:00.  But now, the multiple alarms I set the night before all get turned off when the first one sounds.  I don’t want to get out of bed now, later, or possibly ever.  That’s what it feels like, at least.  And when a full bladder, stomach pangs, & dehydration make it necessary to get up and tend to a few pesky bits of body-housekeeping, this is done with the knowledge that I will be returning to bed as soon as I’m finished.  And that knowledge brings great comfort.  Knowing I can blot out the world with blankets and the lulling white noise of my fan is a glorious feeling—or rather, it is for a time.  Because at some point my mind cannot maintain that lovely flat-lined state; it begins percolating and looking for stimulation.  And without fail my rogue brain charts a course directly for all the things I should have done that day instead of sleep.  The list of regrets my brain compiles is instantaneous and extensive.  And the subsequent guilt is annihilating. 

Today, for example, I could have gone to visit my parents and the dogs.  I could have gone to the gym.  I could have made dinner for Dion & I.  I could have started packing for the move.  I could have vacuumed.  I could have written something.  I could have called one of several friends I have not been in touch with as much as I’d like to be.  But each and every one of these things felt impossible and filled me with dread and something close to terror.

When Dion got home from work after 3:00 today, I was still in bed.  So he climbed into bed with me and was kind and sweet as always, so naturally I began to cry.  The look of concern on his face made the crying become full-on sobbing.  I couldn't articulate why his love made me cry just then, but I knew gist: When my depression gets so bad that I cannot function, I feel guilty & worthless, & during those times I cannot fathom why he or anyone would love me.  On top of that I feel like I’m failing to hold up my end of a pretty sweet bargain.  For Christ’s sake, Dion is paying 95% of the bills.  My primary responsibility is to be happy & somehow I can’t even muster that.

 

And just as I was about to spin out into that wasteland of self-loathing & despair, Dion asked me if the way I’m feeling could have something to do with the recent lowered dosage of my anti-depressant. I almost laughed with relief.  Of course that’s what’s going on!  I mean, I had felt this darkness descending before I went from 90 to 60 mg of Cymbalta, but yes, that clearly is affecting how I’m feeling.  (But, you see, the Tracy who noticed that she was running low on the 30 mg pills that she needs to use with the 60 mg pills to equal 90 mg, well, that Tracy felt pretty decent that day, that week.  She even began to think that maybe she could wean herself down a bit, and maybe get off the things entirely.  And of course she would do this without consulting a doctor.  What could possibly go wrong?!  Oh.  Right.  Everything.)

Depression is a wily little creature.  When it’s ravaging your mind and body & a doctor offers you a lifeline of medicine, you will take it out of desperation.  Or sometimes, when you are particularly apathetic toward your own life, health, & future, you will take it to appease the people in your life who are worried about you.  But when you get some distance from the beast & things seem just lovely, it’s like you contract amnesia about the whole experience.  You think: That was a really bad patch, but I’m through it and I think I can hack it on my own now.  But more than likely you are not thinking clearly because this brief oasis of mental health has you thinking that you have gotten better, that you have slayed the dragon.  Unfortunately that fucking dragon is just really good at playing opossum.