Sledgehammer (the darker side of Priscilla)

I can't recall being this depressed in a long time. It's like there's a heavy wool blanket that smells like wet dog on my head, and someone keeps hitting the top of it with a hammer.

• BONK! I'm tired, my eyes are dried out and foggy (except when I start crying), I can't make a decision (not that there are any decisions worth making), my body feels too heavy to drag around and my thoughts are going to kill me.
  
  

• BONK! I'm a terrible mother and my kids hate me.

• BONK! They're plotting against me.

• BONK! I've ruined my life and the lives of everyone around me. Even though I wasn't directly responsible, VanGogh cut off his ear because of people like me. The Johnstown floods of 1889, 1894, 1907, 1924, 1936 and 1977 must have had something to do with me or my nefarious ancestors. We won't even go into the Peshtigo Fire of 1871.

• BONK! I have no right to a thought, an opinion, an emotion, relationships or property.
  

BONK! I am uneducated, unaccomplished, ignorant, controlling, dishonest, insincere, self-important, melodramatic, two-faced and generally bad.

BONK! I have brought shame upon my family.

Is that everything? No...wait...

• BONK! I'm a bad cook.

It looks like it's time to visit Dr. Friendly and get back on the SSRIs. I have an appointment for September 13 and, if I still feel this way, I'll ask him to dose me. I could call now, but I don't really believe the medication will help. Or that may be just a depressed, negative outlook. At the very least, there will be the initial side effects to get through--nausea, trembling, over-sedation.

Dr. Friendly had me on a new SSRI first cousin, Cynnamon-balta (not its real name, but close), which did jack-shit for depression but diminished the arthritic pain in my hands and feet by about 80%. Unfortunately, combined with my regular pain medicines, Cynnamon-balta sedated me to the point where I was continuously waking up facing a wall. I'd be sleeping peacefully, dreaming of loading the washing machine, and I'd wake up to find myself standing, with my nose pressed up against an interior wall of the house.

Those of us with this type of depression will understand: nothing looks right, nothing seems worthwhile, self-esteem is lower than mole crap, there is a marked decrease in energy and a profound sense of isolation. It's a terrible, terrible place to be, and I've been cycling in and out of it for months now.

I've also apparently passed on the Weeping Curse to all three of my daughters (although, judging by the sales statistics on the SSRIs, so has everyone else in the country). I had spoken with my Caer today--the one who had to take down her outrageously funny blog because she is ending a relationship which she had hoped would never end. Her blog address was revealed to an innocent friend in her ex's family by way of revenge, a person who cannot believe the truth about her family member and who never should have been hurt in this way. Caer's situation is so sad and regretful, and this event would have been enough to handle in and of itself, without the added burden of chronic depression.

But there it is--the MONSTER--the illness that saps our strength by telling us lies about ourselves. There's medicine now, and sometimes it works. But sometimes it doesn't. And there's a long road to travel before getting to the right medicine for the right person, which takes more energy than a depressed person can summon up.

I need to see the ocean. I need to think about cool, bright autumn days and pumpkins and little kids in ghost costumes. I need to smell cinnamon and vanilla. I need to hug my grandson, have him bury his head in my shoulder and mutter, "Anana, Anana." All things being equal, I can achieve all of these needs in the immediate future--possibly even before the new SSRI kicks in.