I am so tired of writing about depression.
I think technically it’s been a very long time since I’ve written about it – but every time feels like here we go again. Every time feels like it makes liars out of the days since the last time, the days when I thought I was “managing my depression”.
I’ve been really angry this time around, angry at my body mostly and the unfairness of having to live inside of it. Why can’t I just be normal? Because I’m certain everyone around me is normal and healthy and doing more than managing.
I know that’s not true. I know that lots of people are dealing with lots of things.
But I feel like the only person who needs to sleep so damn much.
My husband doesn’t have to sleep like I do.
Sure, he has a chronic skin condition that flares up and causes head-to-toe burning every few weeks… but he doesn’t stop getting shit done. It’s so easy to tell myself I have it worse.
Forget worse for a minute. I want to admit that I’m angry – and scared, and tired of being tired.
It’s been a few years since my body was this out of whack. The weight gain, the crushing fatigue, the irregular cycles that are usually Swiss-like in their precision. The last time I got like this I made my way to an endocrinologist and was diagnosed with a metabolic syndrome, which is an official way of saying I can’t eat carbohydrates.
I have been eating carbohydrates.
And here’s the thing: I’m too fucking tired to fix it.
The idea of cooking two eggs right now is enough to send me back under the covers. Meal planning and shopping? Just… no.
That’s where I’m living right now: in the land of no.
I do only what I have to. It’s kind of amazing, actually, what that entails and how, exactly, I’m able to get myself up at 4:30 in the morning to chaperone a kid event and work until 10:00 at night when someone else is counting on me… but how cooking an actual breakfast or lunch is entirely too much to handle.
It has always been my motto that the kids wouldn’t suffer: not for my unplanned pregnancy, not for my marital strife, and not for my depression.
I wish I knew how I was making that work, because I’d channel that energy and willpower into the rest of my life. I swear I would… if only I could.
Maybe if I knew for sure that my efforts would matter. I try and tell myself that doing this one small thing will start a chain reaction and the payoff will be huge, but the idea of a chain reaction sounds big and a bit overwhelming. I’ll start tomorrow, I promise. It’s just one more day.
And now it has been days. Too many days.
I’m so tired of writing about depression.
But mostly, I’m tired of it being my story.