I’m sitting here wracking my brain for a top ten list that I don’t actually have to write. I don’t want to write, I don’t feel like writing, I cannot write. I feel foggy, fuzzy, frazzled and fucking fried. I’m not exactly sure where this is all coming from other than those big stubborn depression roots that are all twisty and turny throughout my…well, my everything. My past, my history, my psyche, mah BER-AINZ.
Everything points depression-ward. My irritability – heightened, my desire and need for sleep – markedly increased, my motivation for all but the slack-jaw teevee watchin’ – all but presto change-o disappear-o. I have atypical depression which means that, unlike all you lucky ducky regular depressoids, I crave the sleep of the dead and am never satiated no matter how much food I crams in my mouth hole. So super dee duper triple wintastic for a trying to slenderize fatty like me. Oh, did I mention the whole self esteem in the shitter business? Or the whiny, woe is me-ness of me?
There really is no rhyme or reason to this disease(also, what a word to describe depression the total embodiment of constantly being in a state of dis-ease)because what’s my prob there, Bob? My world is pretty shiny and new – back with my man, awesome kid, bff moved to town, visits from beloved family and friends, summa summa summatime. And yet? Like black raincloud full of angry bees is me.
I’m trying to fight it with all the exercise and healthy foods and supplements that the self help books tell me can crush it like a tiny, insignificant bug. But this bug is diabolical, yo. It creeps up on ya, up in ya and coils around all your inner junk until you’re not sure what was there to begin with and what to send packing.
Plus, it’s all so pedantic y’all. I mean, it has been DONE. To death. To hundreds of thousands of deaths. To a motherfreaking crisp. Can I just lament for a moment that I was not blessed by the gods of mental illness with some truly interesting affliction that would garner me my own reality show where I would attend radical therapy sessions on live teevee and make breakthroughs and perform medical miracles in front of your very eyes.
What do I need to pull myself up by my bootstraps? First, I need somebody to tell me what the fuck bootstraps are. Then, I need some sunshine in an IV drip, STAT. Then, I need either a)my ship to come in, b)the lottery gods to shine down upon me or c)a J-O-B, yeah you know me. Something I can do at home with my kiddozle to make some cheddar to feed the meter. What you got, peeps? Idealios? I am a desperado here, can you help a sista out?
Shout out to the lovelies at Band Back Together. ‘Cause they’re all so pretty and witty and gay. If you’re feeling down and troubled and you need a helping hand, boogie on down there are share your woes. It’s as satisfying as popping a really good zit and gets all the gunky junks right outta there.
