It's June. It should be sunny and breezy and the air should be filled with the hanging scent of over-ripe blossoms and...
Well. "Should" gets me just about nowhere, so I suppose I'll just toss that out the window, right into the foggy, rainy, cold day that it is. It's Colorado, folks, what can I say? We like our weather capricious here, you never know what you're going to see when you open your eyes in the morning.
In that sense, I feel a strong affinity with this unpredictable weather, having been decidedly unpredictable myself in the recent past months. As for this week, I've been blue. Melancholy. Dreary. Glum. Morose. Gloomy. (I believe I've mentioned in the past that I have a thesaurus and I'm not afraid to use it.)
All morning, I grumbled at the gray skies outside, hissing under my breath, "This is not helping me! Go away! I need some sunshine, dammit! Don't make me come out there and... and... and... OK, I don't know what I'd do, but it'd be rough, mister, so don't make me come out there! I want my June-tastic rays of light and I want them NOW!"
Of course, talking to myself, however discreetly, in a public coffee shop doesn't exactly win me any sanity medals. Not that I'm looking for approval, but it'd be nice if maybe the whole coffeehouse community and all their cousins didn't find out how far from normal I actually fall most days.
There's all sorts of clinical definitions and qualifications and minimizations that the doctors like to use to describe me, but I'll sum it up for you a little more simply than that. I'm moody, y'all. I am downright erratic. We can take a positive view and call me whimsical, though on the other side of that coin, there's always aberrant.
In the past few months, I've been so unpredictable we had to start keeping a chart, seriously, a mood chart for the docs to hem and haw over. Doctors are very good at Hemming and Hawwing. And most of them love charts.
I knew I had finally found the right doctor when he, *gasp*, didn't even want to see my chart! His clinical mumbo-jumbo was practically understandable, even to little 'ol me, and his revolutionary treatment plan just about had me jumping for joy (if I had been feeling any joy, which I wasn't, but there was a definite scent of relief in the air). The plan? Get this poor girl off the pills that make her wacky, and get her onto ONE MEDICATION that will help her even out into average mid-life-stay-at-home-mom wackiness. You know, the acceptable kind.
The up side to all this is that my very, very, very rapid and unpleasant mood swings are slowing down. The down side? Well... I think I mentioned earlier? I feel blue, have for days now. I'm worn out and easily overcome and occasionally start crying at just about the weirdest moments possible.
BUT. There has to be a qualifier, right? I don't like it when I write these long depressing no-hope-life-sucks posts. Hate that. So, my qualifier is this: I am gloomy and weepy, yes, but I am not hopeless, I am not desperate, I am not lost. And, for me, that's really saying something. This little depression of mine right now is like a pathetic Yorkie compared to the Big Black Dog that was haunting my every step recently. Things are getting less extreme as my brain struggles for middle ground. That makes me feel hopeful. Weepy and gloomy and exhausted, but hopeful.
This mood will pass, just as this foggy, rainy day will lift, and then I'll feel better. And each time, the better parts will last longer and longer and eventually, God-willing and the creek don't rise, I will be (drum roll, please...) ME again. Maybe I'll even get to define "normal", won't that be fun? I haven't been it for so long that I think I'll need a whole new set of parameters should I ever get to it again.
So for now, I'm hanging in, hanging on to my Kleenex box, doing the simple chores that occupy my mind but require little effort (like posting on the blog, hahaha!), making sure my kids are safe and sound, (and reminding myself that this full-day daycare situation is helpful, necessary, and temporary, even though it feels terrible). I'm drinking decaf in the hopes that the flavor alone will kick in some Pavlovian endorphin rush to pull me out of this funk or at least wake me up a little.
Rain, rain, go away, come again another day- preferably a day where I have vast wells of energy and good intention to carry me through your wet-and-clamminess with a smile on my face.