Most of you who know me know that I’m pretty optimistic…in fact, I’m kind of annoyingly optimistic. I haven’t been given to deep, glamorous plunges of moodiness since, like, mid-college. (The last time Ash and I broke up eight years ago, I ate Haagen Daaz Vanilla Swiss Almond and listened to Bonnie Raitt’s “I Ain’t Gonna Let You Break My Heart Again” for a month straight. And then I was fine.) But over the last year or so, I’ve been a little low. And then in the last month, I’ve plunged into a freaky depression that is both foreign to my nature and more annoying than my innate sunny outlook on life. I’m depressed. Clinically, even.
I just started counseling with a Scott Peck-ish 70-year-old guy named Jay, and I’ve also started on an anti-depressant for the first time in my life. I’m officially a wreck. I don’t sleep well, I’m not interested in anything, I cry at the drop of a hat and eating is a waste of time. (This last is not so bad, as I need to take off a few pounds. Which I guess is a good sign, since I’m still optimistic about something.) I also have weird anxiety, which is especially bizarre because I’m not generally a worrier. I wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning to stare at the ceiling and completely freak out about all the things that might possibly go horribly wrong, try to plan contingencies for all scenarios, and slowly drive myself insane. This is a good system, because everyone knows how easy it is to be proactive about your life at 3 in the morning, and it works out nicely paired with the depression: since I don’t have the energy to get out of bed, I have plenty of time to pick over every mistake I’ve ever made in my entire life and wallow in regret, shallow breathing and heart palpitations.
The worst part is feeling like “Where did I go?” I emailed Cerise a couple days ago and told her I feel like an angry banshee has taken over my body. I was nice before this, you know? At least I cared about trying to be nice. Now I want to tell all nice people to shove their kindness where the sun don’t shine and shut their freakin’ pie holes. And then I feel guilty about it, which wakes me at 4 in the morning to skyrocketing blood pressure and pangs of remorse and shame.
This whole post probably falls within the realm of Too Much Information…but the truth is, Addison Road is part of my church, and I truly believe that church should be the place where you can let all your funk hang out and you don’t get booed off the stage. If you can’t be honest with the other members of the Body, who the hell can you be honest with?