[deep breath] here goes



Sorry, I'm kind of nervous. I'm not sure how this is supposed to go.

My name? Oh. Sorry. My name is Susan. Do I wait for you all to echo that back? [nervous laugh]

Sorry. I know, I'm not supposed to keep apologizing. Sorr... um, yeah.

Anyways. My name is Susan and I am depressed.

It's been just a little over 72 hours since the good doctor actually said the "d" word. I don't know exactly how long which is a little odd for me since I'm usually so quick to start up a chart or plan or list to deal with "new". Collect data, analyze, fix. Nice, neat, tidy, and ever so efficient.

"Functionally depressed." I don't even know if that's a thing, but there it is. Does that mean I'm functioning okay, then? I'm up in the mornings, dressed, the boy gets 3 squares + 2 and plenty of face time. He giggles and plays and explores and pushes the boundaries. The laundry is done; there are no science projects growing in the back of the fridge. The bottles of wine we moved from PA are still collecting dust, minus the 2 we shared when the playdate crew came over. The bills are paid. I'm carefully online for no more than 2 hours each day.

It kinda threw me when he started talking about actual medication by name. Lexapro, I think. I wasn't really listening. Something about minimal side effects and talk it over with your PCP, whatever that is. I meant to look it up when I got home but I guess I got distracted.

That happens a lot, lately. The simplest of tasks loom over my mornings afternoons days because I simply can't remember if I ever started them and, if so, what part did I already do? Should I just start over? Focus, Susan, focus! How many dirty dishes do you have to pull out of the dishwater before you figure out that you forgot to run it last night? Run it again already.

It's the voices, I think. All those angry, disappointed voices. It's hard to stay focused in the face of all that annoyance. They're right, you know. I have nothing to not smile about. My life? As good as it gets. It's wasteful, this aching sadness, this longing, this utter lack of fulfillment. Greedy, greedy makes hungry puppy, they chide. Chin up! Tsk, tsk, tsk. What more could you possibly want?

I have no answer. It's not more that I want. It's not less, either. It's not that or those or red or shiny or or or. I can't define it. And since I can't define it, I do my best to square my shoulders, dust off the grimness of yesterday and face the new day head on. But it burbles up, this malaise, rising unbidden as I stare, unseeing at the contents of the refrigerator. Now what was it we were going to have for lunch? It's a relief, really, those days when I remember that he's at school and I only have to fend for myself. Bowl of something leftover, nuke it for 1 minute 45, grab a fork and down it goes. It all tastes the same, anyways.

I try to figure out when it all started. Maybe the key to the end lies in its birth. Birth. Heh. Four and a half years later, I'm still resentful. Angry. Furious. Of all the times to choose to voice your "concerns". Seven plus years we'd been married and in all that time, you never said a word. You never once acted like there was anything about him or me or the two of us together that bothered you until the three of us sat down to order Chinese the week before our son was born. I don't even remember who didn't get what. I just remember the grilling in the days following. Having to explain, to defend our relationship. Doing everything in my power to prove to you that my decision to marry him was acceptable on the eve of giving birth to his son. Those seeds of doubt that you so carefully sowed? They took root fast and quickly began to choke out every remaining blade of self-confidence. Pestilence. Soul-sucking. You were supposed to be there to support me. You cut me down at the knees and I've been questioning my every move since.

Sorry. I got a little wrapped up in that. I know I'm not supposed to blame. That's a long ways from acceptance, isn't it? Looking to put someone else in the hot-seat to take the focus off me? An old habit. Always wanting to be recognized, but terrified of being noticed. This is mine. My disease. Wherever it started, it's mine now. Mine to come to terms with. Mine to understand and define. Mine to work through. That's healthy, right? Own it before it can own me. If I'm not already too late.

What's that? My time is up? Oh. Okay. Thank you. Thank you all for listening. Thank you for not asking me how I'm feeling.

Numb, if you must know.



Amy Jo said...

I think it's a good step that you're naming things. Maybe that'll help you conquer things. Best of luck, and happy thoughts coming your way.

Lora said...

Good for you for stepping up to the plate and showing that asshead depression that you are bigger than it.

Love to you lady.