I'm OK, really.

Sometimes, every day's a battle. Some days it's a bloody, brutal mess. Inside my head, I mean. 99.9% of the population would run screaming from what's in my head on a bad day. I call them "bad thoughts". They may be delusions, paranoia, fear, obsessions with God-knows-what, bad memories, beating myself up over dumb things (why did I say that at the party 12 years ago?), or my personal nightmare, the suicidal impulses. Shudder.

I'm depressed again. Again! I get so weary of the battle sometimes. I get tired of side effects, shaking hands, foggy thinking, and when was the last time I went a week without having to take a nap or taking a swig of Pepto? I get strange pimples on my belly, arms, and legs from the lithium. I love my "Big L" but it's a harsh drug.

On a day like today, I ask myself how much worse would it be off the pills, and I thank God I've got my 5 best freinds every day (3 Lithium, 5 mg of Lexapro and a Risperdal). I'd be dead without them, no doubt. Worst of all is the nagging suspicion that I signed up for this. I have a horrible image of myself looking through "life descriptions" and telling God "I want this one, I think it will challenge me." Or I doubt that I'm as strong as God seems to think I am. Maybe God's the personal trainer, forcing you to run another lap when you feel like you're about to vomit. And you do, and then he tells you that you just beat your own personal record. Yeah. You're happy, but still.

So what do I do? I certainly don't sit around feeling sorry for myself. Let me tell you, no one else wants to hear you're depressed, either. What can they say?

I have my own personal mood scale. It goes from +10 to minus 10. If I get worse than a minus 4, then I'd call my psychiatrist. We'd adjust my medication and I'm sure I'd feel better. If it's not that bad, I have a couple of things I like to do. First, keep busy. Busy work is great for the brain. The way I work, if I'm doing something I don't have a lot of RAM left to be depressed. My operating system is busy trying to get that hard mineral crud out of the toilet bowl. I copied some recipies out of cookbooks yesterday. An index card, hanging off a cabinet, is a lot easier than trying to prop open a 1000+ page paperback cookbook. If I just sit I'm going to get in BIG trouble fast.

I try to do nice things for myself too, like baking (latest interest) something I'd enjoy eating, or maybe making something to give as a gift. Ron loved the chili cheese cornbread. He tore a big chunk off the bread while it was still cooling (he knew it was "his"). Tonight I got an inspirational romance novel out of my stash, ran a tepid bath (a hot bath makes me very ill from side effects), and drank a couple cans of cherry cola diet rite. Then I took a shower, washed my hair and all. I unwrapped a nice new bar of soap and got rid of the scrawny looking sliver I'd been using. Little stuff like that goes a long way for me.

One way I can tell I'm getting depressed, other than "I don't want to get online" is when I feel like taking a shower is worse than running a marathon. It's just so grueling, it seems. The bath, book, and soda were all good "carrots" to get my into the bathtub and then the shower wasn't bad at all. I just need to let my hair dry a little before I go to bed. I hate sleeping with wet hair. It's just going to get yanked back into a ponytail so the "style" doesn't matter but wet hair on my face? Ugh.

I have a good life. I remind myself of that repeatedly. God needs me like this. Why? Who knows. I like to think we at least reach some Metrolift drivers with a good example of "Christian Fruits of the Spirit". That sounds like a gay alternative rock band. I'm bad. Still. I hope I do reach them with "This is what loving Jesus is about: loving your neighbor as you love yourself."

That's my most difficult commandment. Loving myself. I see myself as this weak, backfiring, sickly, pain-in-the-butt, expensive (medications), food-intolerant hassle (no one is telling me this). It's hard to see myself a God's valued, cherished, daughter. I am; but I always have to tell myself. I don't know.

Tomorrow won't be bad. I get up at 7, then we go to work. We receive the Dr Pepper order and I'll "help" Ron put it away. Helping consists of sitting on top of 2 milk crates and identifying the sodas as he unloads them. I watch him rotate the stock and stack them in order (Diet Dr is closest to the door, while Big Red is the farthest). If I'm manic, sometimes I'll unload the whole pallet by myself. 80-some cases, weighing 18 pounds each. It's excellent for burning off the manias. Tomorrow, I'll just sit. He insists on doing it, says it's the best way he knows to burn fat. OK. He's the boss. I'm not going to fight him.

Tomorrow I may be fine. The nice thing about my depressions - they tend to last about 2 weeks only. It's been about a week already with it getting a little worse in the last couple days. That's one thing that really baffled the emergency room staff; it's not related to anything. I had a good Christmas, it isn't Christmas. It's just my brain, in it's odd little orbit, decided to rotate to depression.

I'd like to think, in over 20 years of depressions, I've learned a thing or two about handling them. No pity parties. Stay busy; but do nice things for self. Tell Ron I need extra TLC. Be patient and kind to yourself; and remember, it's only a couple of weeks.

I'm OK. Really. I can hardly wait for my next mania.