Why I'm depressed.

I have been dealing with a depressive episode... again. It isn't as striking or severe as the one I had before starting Latuda, but it's an annoying reminder that even when meds are working, they aren't going to fix everything. I've been extremely tired, and have lacked motivation to get out and do things. I've pushed myself to do things anyway, but I've still canceled as many things as I've completed. This includes my physical therapy evaluation. When I start to put off or neglect things that will help me in the long run, I am in danger of backsliding. I can't let that happen. In fact, I am going to call them right now to reschedule. RIGHT NOW. Hold on. BRB.

...

Okay. Rescheduled for Monday the 14th at 11:45. Anyway. I'm having body image problems. I'm a fat girl, and that doesn't usually bother me much, but my new meds have caused me to gain even more weight, and this is not cool. I'm fat, but my weight has been stable for years. Anyone will tell you that when your clothes stop fitting, and there's not a really good reason for it (like pregnancy or getting really buff or turning into a dragon), it's depressing. I need to get out and exercise more, I need to walk, I need to get into the pool, I need to get back to physical therapy, I need to do all this stuff, and it's overwhelming. I can't just sit on my ass getting fatter, especially not when I'm trying to have a baby.

Do I really, really want a baby? I've been wondering about that, too. This month, I was relieved I wasn't pregnant. I think I'm still not ready. Then again, I'm also not ready to start treating sex like a sterile operation again. I don't know. My head is in a million different places. I look at people with children, and my inner reaction vacillates between adoration and disgust. It's like the old me is trying to break through, and ruin everything. Or save me. I'm honestly not sure. This all became awfully real awfully fast. Maybe I need more time to think about it. At any rate, I'm definitely not pregnant right now, so I still have the option to sort things out. It's funny, because when I talk about it, I get excited about the prospect of having a child with Matt, and being pregnant. When I am alone, though, even for a minute, all the old fears come back. My private brain still wants to sabotage any chance I have of being a parent. Despite all of this, I see it as a journey I need to take. Even if I never get pregnant, I need to reconcile the idea of me being a mother.

Mother. What a word. Until that word no longer makes me cringe, I am still going to have issues with the idea of parenthood. Maybe it will take the personal experience of actually raising a child to break me out of the ideas that limit me. It's all just fear, anyway. Some of it is justified, most of it isn't, but all of it can be dealt with. I feel like I need to talk about it more. I feel like I need to talk about it with Matt, and not just keep my fears inside. Yet, fear, by its very nature, hides like a creeping demon, protecting itself with its victim's own anxiety. Well, I don't want to give birth to a demon, or feed it with my worry. So I need to drag it into the open.

What does the word "mother" mean to me?

Oppression.
Repression.
Authoritarian.
A domineering attitude.
Smothering.
Passive-aggressive behavior.
Anxiety.
Worry.
Sadness.
Anger. So much anger.
Shame and guilt.
The child being a burden.

When I associate all of these negative things with motherhood, why would I want to be one? The obvious answer is that I know these things don't have to be true. Maybe if I work on consciously countering these things with positive ideas, I can get over it.

Openness.
Nurturing.
Friendship.
Respect.
Protection.
Communication.
Calm.
Concern.
Happiness.
Love.
Encouragement.
The child being a gift.

I'll work on it.

On to a different topic. When I was 12 years old, I went to a community theatre camp. It was the one thing I was allowed to do every summer that I truly enjoyed. The camp was a place where I felt free to be myself and explore my talents. It was also the place where I first fell in love. Oh, it was unrequited, just the sort of love you'd expect an overly-sheltered, over-sexed 12-year-old girl to be afflicted with. His name was Rick. He was sixteen, and he was perfect. He played the piano, and danced, and sang. He was brilliant. He was on his way to college when the drunk driver hit his car head-on, and paralyzed him from the neck down. I never forgot him. I never stopped being angry at the driver, who was out of jail and driving less than two years later. That man had taken away Rick's life. He'd taken away my ideal. At the time, I did everything I could to support him. There was a special production put on that year, in order to raise money for a van that would accommodate Rick's wheelchair. I got the word out, ushered at the performances. No one knew the extent of my pain, because, being too young, no one took my adoration for Rick seriously.

My mother emailed to tell me that Rick died on Friday. And I keep thinking, the drunk driver who hit him is still living out his life. Can it be considered murder, now? Can we go back and charge him with Rick's death, and throw him in jail, or at least prevent him from ever driving again? Of course not. And it's none of my business. It was twenty-two years ago.

For twenty-six years, I have thought of Rick every day, in one way or another. He never knew how much he meant to me, how much of an inspiration he was. After the accident, he became very bitter for a while, but eventually decided to give his life to the Church. He joined the parish I had been a part of when I was little. I saw him maybe twice after the accident. I remember his smile. Smiling was the only thing he could do, but he was still really good at it. Despite the pain in his eyes, despite the sadness and bitterness, his smile shone on. It shines now in my memory.

I'm glad he's at peace, now. I wish I could do something, reach out to his family, but they wouldn't know me at all. I don't want to be a creep. It was bad enough when I sent him a picture of myself back when he was in the hospital. Way back when I thought he'd just get better, and learn to walk and dance and sing and play the piano again. I like to think that his spirit is dancing again. That his spirit-body is perfect and beautiful, just as it once was. But I am still having trouble letting go of the anger at the man, whose name I don't even know, who took Rick's life. That incident contributed to my own fear of driving, and is the reason I have zero sympathy for anyone who gets behind the wheel impaired by alcohol or any other substance.

Anyway, I think I've done a pretty good job at getting all the stuff down that's contributing to my depression at the moment. There are a few other things, but I've hit my limit.