Yesterday afternoon, while shopping at Carson's (which is most definitely NOT my beloved and most mourned Marshall Field's), I felt myself slipping into The Dark Place. Sliding into depression. Getting on the express train to the Stoney End.*This was the first birthday in 25 years I celebrated without "John," and I had to confront the uncomfortable thought that there may be many, many more if he doesn't take care of himself. And I really missed my best friend.
Here I was, out of the office early, shopping until I caught the train to go to dinner with my oldest friend on my birthday. Not only was nothing really wrong, I had much to be happy about. So why wasn't I happy?
What is wrong with me? Why is my glass always half empty? I hate that!
But getting angry at myself doesn't help, because a shot of self-loathing is not always the best chaser for depression.
But then I remembered, this isn't real. This is hormones playing tricks on me. We're getting it under control, but it takes two-three weeks for the Lexapro to kick in.
So I tried to relax, reminding myself this was temporary. Took out my imaginary disposable camera and snapped photos of the Stoney End. Sent mental postcards. Because I know I won't be visiting there again the future.
*A Barbra Streisand song, written by Laura Nyro, which portrays depression as a location, the place where you go when "the fury of the broken thunder's come to match your raging soul" and "you don't believe you want to see the morning."
