For a week now my bed keeps calling my name. I really didn't want to use this blog to b*&#% about things, but this is the side of depression that really sucks for me. My carpets are covered in dog hair. My sink's filled with dirty dishes. The crab grass that I've been trying to kill has new recruits and have half my lawn held hostage. And I have all the desire in the world to slap on my yellow rubber gloves and attack. Enough to make me crazy. But I have absolutely zero energy. For example, I have to give myself a pep talk to brush my teeth (gross, right?).
When I'm not sleeping, I drive to my mother's house just so I don't have to look at the chaos that's engulfed my house. The good news is that around five o'clock my funk subsides and I run around like a snail with its head cut off (because that's about as fast as I can move when I get like this). I try like crazy to at least get the living room clean and the kitchen clean enough to cook something in the fifteen minutes before my husband gets home. I wonder what he thinks when he walks in the door, all tired from trying to teaching art to teenagers all day, to an exhausted wife, half-baked meal, and a messy house. Better yet, I probably don't want to know what he thinks or might never crawl out from under my ultra-plush comforter.
The light at the end of this sleeping bag is that I saw my doctor yesterday and she changed my meds around so hopefully my turtle-pace will turn back into the jackrabbit-pace I used to have. But it would be much nicer if I could just be like Sleeping Beauty and have my lazy days washed away with a kiss from Prince Charming.
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