Of course, the day after I write about feeling better, my mind expediently does away with that little issue. Who needs to be happy and functional when there are so many things to torture yourself about?
I feel like there could be a Fifty Shades of Grey joke in there somewhere.
Stress at work triggered a lackluster conversation with my lost friend, which triggered some of the bad thoughts to return. Sleep has been my only respite today, having good dreams in spite of the soul-numbing guilt I’ll be subject to for the next 7 days.
I haven’t slept well in a week–only a few hours a day. The inability to fall asleep is heartily assisted by the inability to stay asleep. Neither issue plagued me today, until my mom knocked on the door to see if I was home. I haven’t been able to get back to sleep, so now I’m listening to my thoughts again. They’re driving me crazy.
Shortly, I’ll go find my purse and retrieve the leather-bound journal I’ve been carrying. It’s the same journal I normally keep under my pillow, filled with all of the unhappy thoughts. I might follow journaling with sleep medication, or maybe precede the journaling with the medication, so that by the time my thoughts are fully expelled onto paper, I can drift away from them.
The frustration of circling back to these same goddamn self-pitying thoughts is wearing me out. Half of me wishes I was in Denver for the next two days with my lost friend, making vows and filing our marriage certificate as we’d originally planned. The other half of me is sick of thinking about it, sick of whining about it, sick of grieving, sick of pulling away from the friends and loved ones I can still be with.
It’s a toss up each morning which half is stronger; another toss up as to whether my mood will shift in the other half’s favor.
I’m additionally torn in how to handle the current winner. There’s blogging and journaling and sleeping pills, sure; or I could abandon those for asking a friend to coffee, or grabbing a beer, or taking a long drive north, or working, or reading, or hopping a flight to anywhere but here or Denver, or sitting catatonic in my bed for the next three days and letting the thoughts burrow me into deeper depression.
Something has to give. Something has to shift. I can’t keep letting myself fall into this Hell, while the people I love stand by, unsure how to help or what to say, sometimes afraid that their own griefs or joys will push me farther away. Yet, there’s a little voice of 21st-century reasoning trying to assure me that this backsliding is the work of chemicals and environmental triggers beyond my immediate control. My Church-bred sense of self-loathing disagrees, assuring me that I’m falling victim to vanity and selfishness, and I am, in fact, entirely to blame.
Moving forward, moving forward . . . how does one move forward when the road is a circle?
Perhaps it is simply a tightly-wound spiraling road, split right down the center. Half of the whorl winds through Mirkwood, while the other half travels through Lothlórien in determined, nauseating rotation. If my brain wouldn’t mind slowing down for awhile, I’d like to stay out of Mirkwood for a bit; the elves may not be entirely peaceable, but when demands are made upon my mind, the environment allows me the opportunity to succeed.
tl;dr The depression settled in again due to circumstances at work, followed by texting my lost friend, followed by being roused from the only restful sleep I’ve had in a week. This led to a Lord of the Rings metaphor of questionable sense.