Despair

I haven't written lately because I've been angry again. Yes, again. Over some retarded nonsense. A few days ago I completed my slide down into the utter darkness of depression. I've been sitting around wanting to cry, wanting to smash things, wanting to go completely insane. I've even come close to losing patience with William.

My husband says I should call my doctor. Well, I don't want to! My primary care physician is an idiot. She prescribed me Tylenol for numbness in my leg and heartburn medication for an upset stomach. What's up with that??? If you don't know what's wrong, just say so. Don't prescribe useless medication that I have to get filled while my baby screams his head off in the waiting area.

Anyway...the retarded nonsense...

A few weeks ago, I reached out to an old high school friend on Facebook. We haven't really spoken or seen each other in years, and I wanted to catch up with him. So I sent him a message saying, "Wish we could talk." His response: "Is everything ok?" Yeah, sure, why wouldn't it be? Well, that was the end of that. No other response.

I didn't let it get to me at first. After all, I'm sure he's busy. But then...why would he only talk to me if something was amiss? And then it hit me: he must think I'm a charity case.

Oh, boy. Talk about putting a treasured friendship in a different light. My anger is still palpable.

I'll admit, I chased this guy in high school. He was intelligent, respectful, warm and friendly--and more than anything at the time I wanted to date someone who would treat me right. However, nothing more than friendship ever resulted between us, though I always suspected that he liked me at least a little back then.

None of that matters now, though. I mean, we're talking ten years ago! We're now both happily married and far more settled. What does he think I'm going to do? Hit on him? As if!

I considered writing him an email in which I explain what was going on in my head back in high school and apologize for, if ever, making him uncomfortable. But then I thought, what's the point? What difference would it make, if any? He's obviously not interested in communicating with me, so why put myself out there like that?

Instead, I did this: I deleted him from my Facebook friends list. I think doing that has made me feel a little better, mainly because it is different from what I would normally do.

I thought about the situation like this: if he was uncomfortable with talking to me at any point in our "friendship", he should have just told me so. To let me keep believing that we were friends if he was really just "being nice" to me was a pathetic, cowardly, and cruel thing to do.

I know some people might say that my view of the situation is short-sighted or mistaken. But I have nothing else to go on. And taking him off my friends list is better than writing an emotionally charged, potentially embarrassing email. If he sees that he's been dropped from my friends list and feels concerned about it, he can email me.

I wish stuff like this didn't bother me at all.

The Downhill Slide

It started yesterday. Maybe it was when I looked in the mirror and was suddenly disgusted by the extra ten pounds hanging off my hips. Maybe it was when I looked into the closet and realized I was tired of wearing the same five shirts and one pair of jeans over and over because I'm stuck in limbo between maternity wear and my "skinny" clothes. Maybe it was when I treated myself to lunch and a movie and felt pathetic for not having a friend to go with me. Or maybe it was when my husband went out to get dinner at Taco Bell and came back with someone else's order, the cheapest item on the menu, sans tomatoes.

You've got to be kidding, right???

The terrible thing about depression is that you can be happily skipping along one minute and...BOOM! Suddenly, your parade is getting rained on. Everything becomes a major annoyance: bills, obligations, phone calls, personal hygiene. You want to stomp, and scream, and go to bed, and not get up.

For a very long time.

Unfortunately, I don't have that luxury. Hardly ever do I have it, and certainly not today. William is counting on me, so I must work through it. The guest bathroom needs cleaning, and the nursery could use some organization. Maybe I'll do that. Accomplishing something tangible, even something small, usually helps.

Alone Again

Saturday. That's usually my day to escape for a couple of hours. It's the day I take beading classes at my local bead supplier while hubby watches the little one. Even if I've learned a particular technique before, the class is still fun. I get uninterrupted time to work on a project and great conversation with other women. Granted, they're always 20+ years my senior, but I almost prefer it that way. Older women generally have great life stories to tell.

Today, however, my husband is on duty, so no beading class for me. And William is driving me nuts.

I think the little man is teething. He's so young, though, that I can't give him anything for the pain. So I've spent the past three days listening to him fuss. And fuss. And fuss.

I'm going out of my mind.

It's not that the fussing is so disruptive. I can handle being interrupted during a beading or writing project. It's just that consoling Will is becoming increasingly difficult. I pick him up, he fidgets. I give him my finger or a toy to teethe on, he fusses. I put him down, he cries. And I have trouble telling the difference between his signals for teething and hunger. Sometimes he's screaming before I realize, "Hey, I should get the little bugger a bottle."

Why couldn't I have had just a couple more months of peace?

When I do get a quiet moment beyond the time I spend beading and pacifying Will, I continue looking into grad school. I've decided that I will apply next year in order to qualify for scholarships and additional grant money. Depending on how much aid I can pull down, I may be able to go to school for free. It's looking likely, anyway. I'll also be around the house a little longer to experience some of William's developmental milestones--like when he finally cuts that first tooth.

I'm a little nervous, though, about how much grad school might demand of me. I won't be overloaded with classes, but essays might be a different story. I'm also planning to do the thesis option in case I want a Ph.D. later on. That means TONS of writing and research...and less time for beading and blogging. *Sigh*

As we laid in bed the other night, my husband and I joked (somewhat seriously) about how the demands of grad school might affect our already-limited time together. I suggested that we may have to pencil in some intimacy in my weekly planner between my essays and Will's diaper changes.

No doubt, it's gonna be a wild ride.