In the almost forty years I’ve been in this world, I’ve experienced a number of bouts with depression. Some incidences have been mild, others have resembled an ogre walking down the street wrapped in a black cloud. My latest struggle has caught me at a time when I should be jumping for joy and blowing bubbles from my eyeballs. Seriously. At almost nine months pregnant, I find myself questioning everything. Should we be having another (I KNOW it’s too late)? Was I selfish and scatterbrained, not taking care of myself as well as I should have during this pregnancy? Can we really handle another (I KNOW it’s too late)?
It doesn’t help that it has been the perfect storm of misery in recent months. From becoming unexpectedly unemployed to living in a rental that is up-for-sale and constantly being shown, I honestly feel like control of my life has been turned over to a puppeteer known as “Asshat”.
There are some bright spots, of course, like sticking M&Ms on your tongue and seeing who can hold them there the longest before spitting in the other person’s face. And working on a top-secret project with twenty-nine very special people. Bright spots, yes. Total happiness, no.
People try to cheer you up by making you laugh. Or telling you that you need to laugh more. Please, for the love of Prozac, stop talking. I mean no disrespect, but in your glorified state of employed, house-owning, near perfect life status, you seem to lack knowledge of how depression works. You see, it snatches your inner-most butterflies and rainbows painting and chars it with a coat of black goo. Sometimes you can feel it sneaking up on you; other times it just slaps you in the face with its easel without any warning. It’s unpredictable and truly sucks.
I’m thankful that I can connect the dots and pinpoint the causes of my depression. Others, however, are simply in a constant state of worry and unhappiness. They have no idea what’s driving them down. I feel for them, because once depression has painted its mark on you, it’s hard to get it off.
I’m sure I’ll snap out of it soon. One look at my newborn should help put things into perspective. In the meantime, I’m still searching for the magic black goo eraser. I can tell you it’s not laughter. And it’s definitely not indulging in chocolate cake while enjoying a tall glass of sugar-infused Mountain Dew at two in the morning. That just made me want to puke.