I’ve been doing a mental dance since the beginning of the year: two steps forward, one step back, then zombie creep forward. My last burst of energy in late February turned out to be a bit premature. Mental and physical exhaustion struck within hours, laying me low for a few more weeks. It’s not the return of Winston, the black dog of depression, but Aunt Flo and her little hellish puppy Minnie O. Pause, have been really working my last nerve. Anguished calls to Dr. F. at Mayo Clinic yielded entreaties to be patient for at least two months do the drugs could build my system. Protracted whining to Dr. G. yielded dismayed looks and yet another ingredient in my expanding chemical cocktail. As you might suspect, patience is not my forte.
This led to the most extreme sulk since RA failed to provide a full frontal in Between the Sheets. Well, maybe not that bad. The apathy proved so severe that I couldn’t be arsed to do anything or care about it. Dr. G. queried whether fear, resentment, anger, or depleted fortitude fueled this fugue and what could be done about it. Long story short, a fit of rage over a situation jolted me out of the fugue while the meds finally started kicking back in. On one hand this is great; on the other, I wonder about rage as a primary motivator. Anger is not my forte either. My upbringing did not encourage it, and forced me to push it down. So going from apathetic to livid in minutes is equally disturbing and scary. They say depression is repressed rage. Clearly, that swamp needs more draining. And so it goes.
Meanwhile, I’ll creep back with more writing here. Small steps. Still small steps.