I say I wear depression well, a sly beast with dull teeth, gnawing at my ankle, more irritating than painful.
To the untrained eye, Depressed Me looks a hell of a lot like Normal Me, only a bit more tired and quiet.
I could pin the tail on a number of asses to explain away these blues that will surely pass. Yesterday, I stopped chiding myself over the words that would not come - writing fiction is grueling at times; I am out of practice. I didn't follow any BREAKING! NEWS!; I took a satisfying nap before the kids came home.
I put my mind to rest over what my next chapters should look like; the next chapter in my book, the next chapter in my life as my husband's career soars, and my kids are growing up and slowly away from me.
This hunger feels necessary, natural right about now, the preamble to my mid-life.
And resting a bit and giving myself a break seemed to bring me back to the moment, sandwiched between my kids, each of us reading before bed.
No sorrowful music played in the background. I wore a cheery pink t-shirt, straight out of the wardrobe department saved for holiday sales and baby lotion commercials.
Cymbalta would not approve.
Depression is an unwelcomed guest. She may have to make other arrangements.
*I couldn't help but think of Jimmy and His Many Panels of Wood over at Beanpaste.