It’s been a bad week.
Pshrink appointment Monday was bad and everything got worse from there.
Wednesday night I got very little sleep.
Get out of bed at 6:20 a.m.
Jostle Monkeyboy out of his bed at 6:30 a.m.
Pretend to be cheery.
Breakfast for MiDC.
A banana, eight pills, and a chug of water for me.
Send him off.
Therapy and some of the pills helped me force myself to go on to work after I launched him Tuesday and Wednesday.
But my effed-up brain chemistry is determined to win one for the home team.
I could no more put in a productive day at work this day than I could whomp Mike Tyson in a bare-knuckles brawl. I call in sick.
A friend’s mom recently passed.
I clean up and attend her funeral.
She won the Women’s American ORT Eshet Chayil award.
My friend seems surrounded by loving family. Husband, son, father, siblings, nieces, nephews,
Mindless errands after funeral.
Go home, sleep with head under covers until about fifteen minutes before Monkeyboy gets home.
Pretend to be cheery, permitting myself as much leeway as I need to channel my depression as Cranky Dad.
I was pretty good, this time. ‘Cause MiDC didn’t say “You sound depressed dad.” Which, sadly, he’s learned to do --- with startling accuracy and an 11-year-old’s guileless candor.
He and RFB made the evening a little better. Stuff to do. Nag about homework. Comparison shop for a new gadget for a son with an insatiable appetite for technology. Fold laundry and distribute to various dressers and bedtops. Watch part of Cocoon with RFB while our sweet child slaughters aliens on the computer.
Take four more pills. None a sedative, G-ddammit. The pills to help with that don’t mix well with the more important ones.
Get to bed by 10:00 p.m. and pray for unconsciousness.
Prayer answered before 11:00 p.m.
Back to the routine. I’ll fall far short of optimal efficiency at work today. But I won’t fall further behind, either.
Depression can be dealt with. But first, arrest the downward spiral.
It’s the first rule of holes:
If you find yourself in one, stop digging.