Day 261 of depression, round 5.
I’ve moved from one side of the couch to the other side. It makes the charger plug for the laptop come out though. So I might switch back to the other side.
There’s laundry on the futon, not sure if its clean. Another heap of it on the carpet. And more in the washroom. But there’s an entire hurricane of clothes in the bedroom.
How much Netflix have I watched today? I’ve lost count.
The coffee table is covered with scattered items; DVDs, toys, crayola markers, Nutella jar and spoon, water bottle, dirty plate, ice cream sandwich wrapper, etc.
Toys everywhere. Why did I buy all these toys? Where can I put them all? Sometimes I want to throw everything away.
I wept today. Wailed, actually, quite loudly. Haven’t done that in a while. Stood in the middle of the kitchen, wiping my face repeatedly, lifting up my eyeglasses, wipe, more tears, wipe, more tears, wipe, now the tissue is soaked.
My ex-husband called me. Cried more.
I’ve been forgetting to take my medication this week. Hence all the tears today. When I take them consistently, I’m a little bit numb to all the feelings.
It felt good to cry. I feel lighter.
Pain weighs a lot. It’s no wonder my muscles are always aching.
Headaches, migraines, stomachaches.
They told me emotional pain and physiological pain are connected. I guess they’re right.
I’m so tired. I’m exhausted. I’m so tired in fact, that I’m tired of being tired.
There are days I wish I could sleep and not wake up until my body is normal and my brain is new. But then I get so much anxiety about oversleeping, I get dizzy and sweaty and that tiny lump in my neck starts throbbing.
I’ve gained weight.
In my first few rounds of depression I actually lost weight. Down to about 90 lbs. All bones.
Now I can’t even find my bones in all this blubber. My daughter constantly asks me if there’s a baby in my tummy. But she doesn’t know that I’d had to have sexed someone first, which hasn’t happened in ages.
That’s because I have no love life. I’m alone. Aside from my daughters of course, but that’s a different type of love.
My eyeballs hurt. Guess they’re sore from the crying.
My therapist tells me I’m not delusional or abusive or a neglectful mother, so that’s something. But I know I’m not enough.
They deserve better.
A lot of people my age are making a shit ton of money. They’re successful. They have their own custom built homes. Luxury cars. They take a shit ton of vacations too. Their kids have their own rooms. Happy families.
Me? I’m drowning in debt. I live in a one bedroom basement apartment that I’m renting with my two children. I listen to the well-off family above me walk across their vast living room and hear them rustling around the kitchen every morning; the blender whirs and the kids are running down the stairs, and there are two parents and a nanny. And their home is immaculately clean. I’ve seen it.
I’m a liar. I lie to people. I smile. I radiate. I hug and laugh and plan parties for my daughters. I suck.
I’m a sicko.
Someone’s knocking at the door. Oh. No, that’s just my migraine kicking in the side of my skull. I got nervous for a second; how can I let anyone in to this mess?
(Photo taken in 2005 during round 2 of my depression)