...from the bottom of a well. Yes, it's both a cool song by Mike Doughty and an accurate reflection of my mood this week.
So what's up? And what do I have to complain about anyway? I just moved into my own house; I'm warm, dry, well-fed (!), and employed. The chorus of Presbyterian ancestors in my brain just started in with their favorite chant: Suck it up! It's just a flesh wound -- walk it off! Rub some dirt in it! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Quit being such a pussy! OK, maybe not that last one.
As far as I can tell, this is where brain chemicals come in; or more precisely, my low reserves of them. I usually hold up pretty well when the pressure is on, but if it stays on just a little too long, however long that is, I crash as soon as things approach normal. It's almost more a physical thing than a mental thing although the mental and emotional functions are what suffer.
I can get through the day by sheer force of habit but I have no mental energy left for anything other than the bare essentials*. Given a choice, I'd curl up on the couch with the remote and check out for a week-long pity party.
The saving grace is that over the past three decades of dealing with these episodes, I've uncovered a few basic truths that nearly always hold. It is what it is. It will eventually pass. Falling into the pit doesn't mean my life sucks. Listening to The Ancestors does no good; beating myself up over it doesn't make it go away any faster. Although medication does. Or it would, if I were currently taking my meds....
Uh, wait a minute. What was that last thing, again?
Crap. I think I just told myself the right answer. Which is better than someone else telling me the right answer, I suppose. I just wish it didn't take so long for me to communicate with myself.
*As is evidenced by this really lame blog entry. Sorry.