So, depression has crept its way back into my life again, like old high school acquaintences who hang around and you don't notice until they say something completely inappropriate or hurtful. And you respond, "Oh, it's you again, great."
I noticed its presence when, on a bathroom break at work today, I said to myself, "Fuck this job, I think I'll just quit and let someone else take over for me." Meanwhile, my inner Spock perks his ears and says, "Well, you do have two children, a husband, and a cat to provide for, remember?" Yep, thanks Spock, where would I be without you? A dead-beat mom trying to make it as a writer and Texas Hold-em pro. Fortunately, I don't really drink, so my inner Spock is usually the clearest voice in my head, as opposed to my inner Sid Vicious, let's say.
I've been desparately trying to reach any of three people this morning who could help me tackle the dementors in my brain and I finally got a hold of Scotland (the man, not the nation). He and I lead parallel lives: he is also the sole bread-winner of a family of four (two kids still in diapers). I feel much better and less self-hate with regard to my melancholy after speaking with him as we have similar lives and to have a common misery at least takes the sting out of depression. I am not alone, therefore, I am not mad. Thank you, Scotland, for the shoulder; much love to you.
I feel especially hard-hit by this gloom because I didn't really see it coming. I've been taking melatonin, a sleep hormone, and I have not been suffering from insomnia: the first flare that goes up signalling the advance of depression. I've just been on the edge of freak-out for the past week or so and haven't really seen it for what it was. So, yay, I'm depressed again. Start the anti-melancholia protocol, Mr. Spock; let's get this ship turned around.