I've made no real attempts at hiding the fact that depression chases me around & pins me down from time to time (probably more frequently than that, but lets not get into the semantics of it at the moment). With all of this “experience” I am getting with being down in the dumps all the time, you'd think I would find a way to work it to my advantage. . . But, no. Unfortunately, that's not the way it works.
To cope, there's the usual tears & crankiness that you might expect, but there's also an unhealthy amount of sleeping. . . I can sleep for 10, 12, or 16 — even 18 hours at a time if left alone. I awake for the restroom or a quick sip of water. (We do live in the desert, after all. It is dry, dry, dry!) OR, I go to the other extreme & can't sleep unless I take a gulp or two of the ZzzQuil bottle & read until my eyes go crossed & my head is swimming & I have no other choice but to close my eyes & succumb to my exhaustion & the drug's effects.
If that was all, frankly, it wouldn't be so bad. . . It might be one extreme or another in regard to sleep, but eventually it tends to even out. When I can't sleep, there's plenty of writing — I can't speak to its quality, but it is usually quite therapeutic & that is the word of the day quite a bit lately. . . So there's that.
Sometimes the lack of sleep turns into binge cleaning too. It's rare, but it does happen. There's pretty much always a pile of clean laundry in our bedroom since I absolutely despise folding it. (Maybe that's because, as one of my chores growing up, I had to fold the entire family's laundry? Who knows. It's a fact, nonetheless.)
None of those things are so horrible. What is horrible, though, is that I also seem to binge EAT. It's a problem. One moment, I am typing away on my little notebook computer or zoning out on some silly television show & the next moment, I am answering the door to the pizza delivery person. Pizza, wings, & some kind of sweet something or another. It's my weakness. Or, anything potatoes. Or super meaty dishes. Occasionally veggies work their way in there too; don't get me wrong. . . But, the point is, I eat my feelings & I am just figuring this out.
The times in my life when I didn't do just that, it was a different vice. I was a smoker for years & years. I sure could chain smoke when I was upset or feeling down. . . (Caffeine & nicotine diet, anyone? I lived on it.) I also had several years of practically living at the bars. I drank way more than anyone should, was probably way more promiscuous than any lady should admit to, &, of course, paused for a smoke break as often as possible. . .
Now that I quit smoking, if I am feeling depressed & I slow down on the binge eating, I pick up a glass of wine or Jack Daniels & Dr. Pepper or a bottle of beer. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy all of these things. . . I just realize that I don't always enjoy them for the right reasons when I do indulge. It's sad. . . & of course that warrants a further slip into depression.
It'd be nice if, instead of eating & sleeping when I am feeling down, I exercised — walked, bicycled, gazelled, Pilates, whatever — &, you know, like, cleaned regularly. . . If I could find a way to channel the negativity into feeling & looking good & making my home reflect that, it sure would be a nice change. . . It just seems like more work than I am willing to put in. . . Which is also depressing to say “out loud.”
I feel exhausted. . . & I didn't even do anything. I wake up feeling exhausted most days. Part of it is the depression & part of it, without a doubt, has to be weight-gain from eating too much of the wrong things. I am tired of being tired. . . & of disliking the mirror — more than usual.
Sure, the parts of my brain that are capable of logic tell me that these are all things that I can control. They all have actions that I could take to improve. . . But the other parts of my brain tell me that it's too hard & that I am ungrateful of what I already have & unworthy of having more or doing better. “The Bitch.” Remember her?
One day, I will wake up & realize it is not as difficult as I am making it out to be. . . One day.