Did you ever wonder why my name is Depressionista?

Sometimes a fog just drops over me, and tonight is one of those times. It's like I've been hit in the head by a brick of depression. It just hits, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. It's times like this when I realize that no matter what medication I'm on and no matter what's happening in my life, I will always struggle with depression.

Nobody tells you at the beginning that it's going to be a chronic disease--probably because it would be too damn depressing. And maybe for some people it is self-limiting and goes away and never comes back. But for the rest of us, I guess it would be nice if, right at the beginning, your therapist or psychiatrist or whoever could let you know that it's possible that you may have to "manage" this disease for the rest of your life. I don't know. That would probably be too much to handle for someone deep in the throws of this illness. It just seems like it's taken me a long time to figure it out. And now that I have, yes, it's depressing.

One of the hardest parts of depression is that you cannot trust your own thoughts. At it's worst depression convinces you that the world would be a better place without you, and that's why it's deadly. In milder depression moments perhaps you just feel that if you could change just that "one thing" in your life that was fucking it all up, everything would be better. Lots of times, especially when you've dealt with it for awhile, you feel that you are to blame for the feelings you have. Something is WRONG with you because you just can't be happy! Why can't you just fix it already???

Which then leads you try to figure out the root cause for your pain. Rationally, you know that your illness could be the result of a "chemical imbalance"--the most palatable answer because there's very little you can do about it, or do to cause it--but that's not always the case. It could be the result of genetics or the way you were raised or whatever horrible life tragedies you have endured. It could be the bad marriage you're in or hormone changes or having a baby or losing a baby or not being able to conceive a baby. Usually, I just conclude that I'm generally damaged somehow, by whatever mix of the above or bad luck or some ancient curse.

There was nothing overt to bring on this feeling tonight. I'm not PMSing, Bubba's not sick, J. is driving me crazy but that's pretty standard, I got to see my niece and my sister and brother-in-law for dinner, although Bubba threw a fit all the way through (also pretty standard). I knew I was teetering on the brink of the abyss and I told J., impatiently and curtly yes, but clearly, that I was depressed for no real reason and feeling grumpy and irritable. A little bit later, I came in to do a load of laundry and found the carnage of J.'s feeble attempts at the chore--clothes in various states of clean, dirty, wet or dry. I had no idea how to even rectify it enough to start somewhere. I came back upstairs and told J. that he needed to sort things out so I could start--then suggested that we both go down and do it together. On the way down I said, off-handedly, "Doesn't life just suck?" as a general comment on the responsibilities of adulthood. He got angry with me and when I pressed him for a reason, he said, "I'm just sick of that attitude, I guess." This, from the man who spent half an hour at 11:30 p.m. last night telling me about how underappreciated he was at work, how he really needed to find a new job, how he felt he was underpaid and he works harder than anyone there, etc., while I sympathetically cooed, coddled and ego-stroked.

I know I've probably written this here before--but I just find the crushing sameness of my life very hard to handle. I know what I'll doing at just about any moment of any given day, with a little bit of variation on the weekends. I will wake up at about 6 or 6:30. Get Bubba what he needs so he'll be quiet for awhile. Make myself a cup of coffee and have a cigarette on my porch. Come back in and start cleaning up the kitchen, doing dishes, feeding the cat, getting Bubba's breakfast ready. J. sometimes shares in these chores or keeps Bubba happy. At about 7:30 I take a shower. J. and Bubba leave for school/work at 7:45. I catch the bus at 8 or 8:30. Get to work. Work at boring job. Leave work at 5. Catch bus home. Immediately and slavishly attend to Bubba's needs, which usually includes making a dinner while he cries. Feed Bubba. Play with Bubba. Watch SpongeBob with Bubba. THEN start the bedtime routine with Bubba. Get Bubba down to sleep. Go have a smoke and wait for Bubba to cry. Go comfort Bubba when he cries, then smoke some more, maybe eat something myself, sit on the couch while J. plays video games. Try to initiate conversation or act interested in work stories or complex oral recreations of whatever book he's reading or how great his new video game is. (Why is it that he can somehow manage to pay attention to current events, read book after book, and spend countless hours playing PlayStation, when I feel I never have time for a damn thing?) Give up when conversation dies and go call Tingle, LilCherie, sometimes my sister or my mom. Come in, watch a little TV, go to bed or fall asleep on the couch. Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat...

LilCherie and I are going to visit Tingle a week from tomorrow. It is most obviously and definitely something I really, really need. I am, in fact, desperate to leave my life behind for a few days. But I know it won't really change things. I know I'll come back to this sameness and after the first day home it will be like I never left.