I may be projecting (probably am) but I can only assume that you – the collective “you” – are tired of hearing about my (and other’s) depression. I know *** I *** am. In fact, I’m tried of living it. <<< I’m not suicidal. Just exhausted.
I checked out the health app on my phone yesterday and listen to this… although I don’t take my phone *everywhere* (I was never a toilet-texter, for example) I do take it most places… and unbeknownst to me, the app has been counting my steps since 2017, when I originally signed up on it. I’d forgotten. Anyhow, my average steps in a day over the last four years? Like, uh… low hundreds. Not low thousands… low hundreds.
“Sitting is the new smoking,” indeed!
I feel like Colin in the Secret Garden, a hypochondriac after my own heart. Thinks he’s crippled when in fact he’s weak from not moving. Ugh.
I could blame it on the pandemic — and of course, I do… somewhat. Especially in Ontario, where we’re still in quasi-lock-down (as you have all heard ad nauseam for the last several months).
The weather plays a role, since about 7 months of the year are best for skating, not walking, especially if you’re a budding senior with vertigo problems. We had some beautiful weather this week, punctuated by days like today, rainy and cold.
Of course, my out-of-shape bod is front-and-center, as the leader of the unhealthy pack.
And don’t even get me started on the depression that has punched, pushed, and mocked me since Dad died… and I couldn’t get there. <<< Yes, I know. Couldn’t be helped. Dad would say to let it go. He really would, too! I get it. In my brain. My heart and soul has been crushed by the realization that the last time I saw Dad was the very last time I’ll ever see him.
Real Debbie Downer over here. I get it. I get it. I get it.
There have been times in my life that I’ve covered it up, with varying levels of success. Sheryl don’t play that anymore.
Yes, what you see is what you get… and the other way around… there is no pretence or acting. Only honesty and authenticity.
Tortured? Maybe. True? Always.
Depression sucks. We all know this. Pills help… sometimes. Not always. And by “help” I may mean, “put you to sleep long enough to avoid most of the day” because truly, that’s how it’s been for me lately.
It’s not that I have nothing to live for… it’s that I have nothing to get out of bed for.
Pity party much?
Most mornings, I …
- Wake up between 8:30-9:00
- My sweet husband has brought my coffee, which I enjoy
- Open the curtains (and window, in nice weather)
- Check my emails and messages
- Look for work
- Look for ways to monitize this blog
- Take my morning meds
If I have anything – as in absolutely anything – to do, I get up and clean up, get dressed and put on actual shoes. Otherwise, it’s one set of PJs to another.
Maybe I eat. Maybe not.
Some days, like today, I do the list, don’t eat, and then the cats come in with me and we fall asleep together. I waft in-and-out of consciousness … dream about things I don’t remember… for hours.
For months, I got up and made the bed, then walked over to the other room – the library, and did stuff. I wrote, I drew, listened to music, read books, or my cards, prayed and/or meditated. Then, I figured out that I could take my laptop to the bed. Gagnante! <<< That’s “winner” in French. Canada is a duel-language country, ya know! Anyhoo, the computer (and everything else) in bed is why I feel like I’m getting actual bed sores on my butt. But I digress.
If there were a magic wand to rid myself of this asshole depression… believe me, I’d use it.
That said, I’m sorry. I’m trying to crawl out. I even drew this picture yesterday…
That’s me… both hanging on and trying to crawl out.
I shared it on Instagram, along with a really pretty photo of a woods nearby.
It’s an uphill battle and I’m trying… I really am!
I’m also exhausted. Just being honest.