I’m not sure what point there is in writing about feeling depressed. I think there’s some study that says purging isn’t actually good for you, and besides, who wants to read about how tired someone is, how fat, how very gray. It should be gray right? Not blue, the color of nautical scenes and boys’ layette. I think there’s hardly a use for writing about feeling depressed because you also can’t do it justice.
If today were an opening scene in a movie, it would open with some good mood song—obviously I can’t think of one now because I can’t get on with that wavelength, but something like Queen’s Under Pressure—then a tight shot of water from a waterfall shower head, feet out of slippers, hair in a turban, blotting of lipstick, a rod of clothing from which to choose the day’s ensemble. Then the music would peter out as our lead climbed back into bed, gold sandals still on. I can’t get myself to leave the house.
I have nothing to wear, nothing fits, my face is fuller. I’m afraid of the scale. Despite forcing myself to go to the little gym in my community, I can’t perk up or get back on track. I tell myself to just get through four days, just four, then I’ll be back. I haven’t reached out to friends I want to see, in part I think, because I have nothing to wear and feel old and pale and I’ll see it on their faces, as they fall a little, unsure if I’m really the friend they last saw. Am I in there somewhere?
I tried printing inspiring quotes, treasure map photos. Not helping.
I really hope this depression is linked directly with my low testosterone. Not just low. The doctor wrote on my blood work results, “very low.” Because if it is, at least that’s something that can be fixed. Being on 300mg of Wellbutrin hasn’t helped much either. I haven’t made any effort to see old friends or make new ones. What have I done? I’ve baked a blueberry nectarine cake and topped it with lemon basil frosting, so at least all’s not lost.