Where Gaynip Returns, Sorta

The thing I hate most about depression is the way it steals your drive and your ambition.  I tend to feel hopeless, lost, frustrated and stuck in a rut.  I acknowledge that I need to do something to get out of it, but then I lose the ability to copy, the ability to push myself into action.

It feels like falling into a cavernous hole.  Knew it was there, tried to edge my way around it, but one misplaced step and I’m ass over teakettle into the pit.  It’s not a straight decent to the bottom, either.  You might hit the sides on the way down.  Land on a ledge and try to climb out using weak footholds and old bits of root.  Eventually, I’ll hit the bottom.  I might lie there a bit, feeling defeated and sorry for myself.  Sink into the gloomy depths before I sit up and take stock of the situation.

When I’ve faced depression before, I haven’t had much of a support network.  Even my former doctor ended up in tears when I’d tell him stories about my childhood.  He’d stand at the top of the hole from a safe spot, and eventually, after telling me where the handholds were, and watching me scrabble along, I got myself out of the hole.  Where was everyone else?  My parents stood off to the side, shaking their heads.  To them, that hole didn’t exist.  They were ashamed of me for being weak and not able to cope as adults are supposed to.

My friends, limited as they were, knew the hole existed.  Been in the hole themselves, some deeper than others.  But they weren’t interested in lending a helping hand.  In some cases, I didn’t blame them.  Hard to help someone else out when you’re busy with your own climb out of a deep, dark place.  Others just didn’t feel like getting down and dirty with me.  Part of me understands that too but part of me is angry, because I’m the type of person to get down and dirty for my friends.  Even if it means sacrifice.

This time, it’s really weird to be depressed.  I’ve got friends at the top of the hole, shouting down encouragement.  I’ve got friends who are willing to repel part of the way into this abyss to lend a hand getting out.  And of course, I’m better equipped at the bottom this time.  I’ve found some tools that will help me get out.  When I get out I’ll be able to backfill some of this pit in so I don’t fall so deep again.  Or at all.  Wouldn’t that be great?

Yesterday, I had my assessment done.  I still need to get a proper diagnosis.  As it turns out, my aversion to pills aren’t completely unfounded.  I’ll hear back in a month again.  The wait for the kind of therapy I need (specialized) will take a little longer.  There are a few options for me.  It’s really a huge relief to hear someone else tell me that I’m not crazy and that this isn’t my fault.  I come from an extremely dysfunctional family.  I’ve been told that the steps I’ve already taken (visiting Momar and Jo) are healing ones.

I feel better today.  I woke up feeling happy.  I’m dealing better.  Tomorrow I’m shelling out $260 for two new tires for the car and I’m not spazzing out.  This is what the savings account is for, after all.  I’ve still got some nasty side effects happening.  Dizzy.  Headaches.  Tiredness.  Aggravated restless leg syndrome.  Insomnia.

On a side note: I may not be as big of a lesbian as I had initially thought.  How odd.  Cortejo and Reyl are always talking about how sexuality is fluid.  But the funny thing is, when I see a naked woman, I can’t imagine wanting anything else.  Yet, I find myself contemplating men.  It’s very strange.