……and striking out pretty frequently. But as somebody already said, ’tis better to swing and miss than to just stand there.
I seem to have lost my way in knowing what’s appropriate and what’s TMI. I’ve written four articles recently for the people who actually pay me to write, and only one of them was published—the other three were rejected as “too personal”. And I know they’ve got to be right, because I’m one of their most prolific writers and they’d publish my grocery list if I could make one that’s halfway entertaining.
Another thing to be disappointed about. I am on a roll and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down, although Will and I had a long, long talk last night about my depression and I felt marginally better this morning. Didn’t sleep worth a damn, though, and today I actually blew the chance to go to Mass at our old customary time because I just didn’t want to deal with people.
I’m not very good at lying and saying “Fine” when they ask me how I am and I’m NOT fine. Nobody wants or needs to hear about all this bullshit. The one they need to worry about is Will—he’s the one with cancer, he’s the one who deserves to be able to say “I’ve been better.” People want to hear his story, and I don’t blame them one bit; at least his is interesting.
Besides……my hair is dirty and I look like hammered shit. The miracle it would’ve taken to change that would’ve required more effort than I wanted to put out. So there.
Will wants me to call Dr. A tomorrow and tell him about all this. Naturally, I am resistive to the idea because I don’t think it’s serious enough to bother him with only a week before my next appointment. Clinically, a week of feeling down does not constitute a depressive episode, either in the DSM-5 or the court of opinion, and I think I need to suck it up until I see him next Monday. Of course, I could just be making excuses……I’m on pretty shaky ground as far as insight goes, or I wouldn’t be having so much trouble writing appropriate stuff for the other website.
I do feel it necessary to mention that while I may be down, I’m not out: I watched my football team win a nail-biter today while coaching them from my usual perch on top of the sofa and yelling at the TV with my usual vigor and colorful commentary. The rosy glow of the victory is fading now, but at least I was happy about something for a little while. I can’t be THAT depressed, can I?
But the main reason I don’t want to go whining to my doctor is that I suspect this particular downturn is a direct result of the fact that I overreached again during that last manic bender, and when I came back to earth, reality simply bit me in the ass. Hard. He tried to warn me that I was trying too hard and asking for trouble, and as usual, he was spot on.
You can’t medicate that away. When will I ever learn to stop swinging for the fences and being surprised when I wind up flat on my back in the dirt?