Ok, so despite my intense displeasure at the thought, maybe I need to talk to a doctor - when the insurance actually turns up- about going back on anti-depressants. Blah.
Don't get me wrong, medication is great. It's just that I feel like a weak, selfish, useless failure. There's a strong urge to self medicate, but we can't really afford it. Which adds to the depression. When you can't afford a bottle of scotch, life is seriously sucky.
Although, I guess since the reason we can't afford a bottle of scotch is because we're still putting good food on the table for the family. That should count for something, shouldn't it?
Actually, Steve's putting food on the table. Not only do I not earn any money to contribute to the family's funds, but he's also the cook. Because when I cook, I get stressed out, and everything kind of tastes the same. Did I mention that he also cleans? Because "clean" to me pretty much means that I know the obstacle course well enough that I can do it in the dark after a couple scotches.
That we can't afford.
Actually, it's Steve and his parents' fault that I developed such a strong love for scotch. But that's a long story. And not the one I started off talking about.
Basically it comes down to a simple decision. Either, I go back on the meds and hope that's the issue. Or I make peace with the fact that I'm a horrible person. Because I am. The meds help me forget this fact, sort of. It never goes away, which is why I don't really want to go on the meds again. They don't change the nature of the person, so what is the point? Even on the meds, people can't stand to be near me. Don't want to invite me along. Don't make me a better wife, mother, daughter, person. They just make me not care so much that I'm such a failure. I still feel like a failure, but without all the...woe is me shit. You know?
Oh geez, calling to mind a series of ads that play in New Zealand about depression. There's this big guy, apparently an ex rugby player or something. He claims to suffer from depression, so you know what he does? He exercises! And he cooks! And that makes him all better. Oh, the fact that he has more money than he could spend in 3 lifetimes isn't the issue. The fact that when he sneezes, he has people coming out of the woodworks to ask him if he needs help isn't the issue. I say fuck you poser! I work out. I feel like a stuffed sausage. Or a beached whale.
Geez, the other day I lay down for a second. I honesty did feel like a beached whale trying to get back up. I almost asked Steve to get a bucket of water to pour over me!
Ah! And then one of my friends from way back is complaining that she's not loosing weight. She wants to get under 130 pounds!!! She has 5 kids and is well under 140 pounds! She's the same height as me! I would kill to get under 200 pounds! How is this fair?
So, ok. I'm fat. I'm ugly. I'm stupid. I'm useless. I'm unorganized.
What the hell happened to me?