It hit me yesterday, around 10 o’clock in the morning, when I was still struggling to drag myself out of bed. The reason I’ve been perpetually late, achingly tired, and totally unenthusiastic about basically everything for the last few weeks isn’t because my life sucks. I have a great life. My old companion depression has melted slowly into my brain again.
She showed up at this same time last year, too. Maybe it’s the short day. Maybe this happens more than I realize.
Well, regardless of the possible seasonal cycle, depressed Sarah is ruling the roost up in my grey matter. I’ve been eating a lot of feelings. My fuse is short. My tolerance for bullshit is nonexistent. The grass looks way greener somewhere else. My need for order and calm and efficiency is very high. I have bursts of pleasantness and joy, but mostly I want to sleep, or cry, or scream. I probably shouldn’t drive very much (particularly in Philadelphia, where the jackassholery behind the wheel seems to be at constant epidemic levels). I probably should cut back on the coffee.
I have a therapist. I have a psychiatrist. I have drugs. I have a great community. I have a husband and son who understand me and love me. I have a faith that helps me remember it’s not all about me. So, no intervention needed. But you may not want to cut me off in traffic.