A Case of the Mopes
I haven't been writing, because I've been too busy moping around and feeling sorry for myself. I have been writing actually, just not in my journal. I've written bits and pieces every day that go nowhere and serve only as a vent to whine, complain and talk about how horrible I think I am. I've written email too� way too much email as a matter of fact, which is really good for the people receiving it (at least some of them; others are probably overwhelmed), but it's not so good for getting things done or keeping my journal updated.
I was like this last week too, but I managed to find some subject matter that didn't deal with how crappy I've felt or the same old complaints in my life. This week, there is no such fodder. I used the wedding, and now I'm stuck. I thought about talking about Brownie politics (the Girl Scout kind, not the delicious chocolate kind), counseling, John's band, or my busy schedule, but I just didn't feel like it. All I felt like doing is weeping through my words.
The good news is I'm feeling better, so now I think I can talk about what's been going on without being a big old downer. Not that the subject is any more cheery, but I won't sound like I'm going to jump off a bridge.
I went to counseling by myself this week. I thought about asking John if he would mind that I went alone, because I have been feeling so sad, and it had nothing to do with him at all. As luck would have it, Booie's field trip ran later than expected, and he had to stay home to greet her anyway. That worked out well, which made me believe I'm not as unlucky as I thought.
The doctor seemed pleased I was there alone. She said it was good to have individual sessions every so often. As we started, she asked for what I think is the third week in a row if I thought I was depressed. For once, I admitted that I did. It's not that I feel depressed all the time though. I go through these phases where I feel fine and then go to 100% rotten. She suspected this for the past few weeks (obviously, by her questioning). I told her I have a problem with the label of depression, and I don't feel like some kind of victim. I just feel bad, and I have no good explanation for it.
John and I were doing extremely well the previous week. He seemed to be back on track, and we were getting along. Despite the upward turn in coupledom, I was feeling very unhappy. I know I have seasonal depression, and I really have to dig out my happy lamp, but I didn't feel like that's the only thing to explain the gloomy cloud that was hanging over me. Life's been going well. I think I've chosen a field of interest in which to focus my entry back into the working world. I achieved a big goal by finishing my race. I have another goal on track to do the marathon. I'm even writing a novel next month, so I can say I did, even if it is a piece of shit. All these good things in my life would make a normal person quite satisfied, but I just found myself feeling guilty that I didn't appreciate it more.
So I'm depressed, but I'm not going on any medication. We didn't even talk about it. I don't want to go on medication, and she didn't suggest that I do. I'll unearth my sun lamp, and maybe that coupled with some counseling and working toward a career will make me feel better. If not, I won't deny medication. It's better than living in a constant funk. The doctor seems to think getting a career will help me immensely and said that's why she's stressed it so much throughout these sessions. I need to "find an identity" other than this whole wife and mother thing.
The rest of the time, we talked about John, which I think is pretty hilarious. She seems fascinated with the way he thinks. I guess I'm just used to it. He's a dreamer, not your average dreamer either. He's a big dreamer. We've gotten into arguments where he calls me negative and pessimistic because I try to inject a little realism into some of his ideas. I'm not a negative person at all. Every personality test I've ever taken, from those ridiculous magazine versions to the massive MMPI said as much. But that's not the way he sees it. I'm bringing him down, and that means pessimism to him.
The counseling session the week before, we talked about John finding another career. He hates his job. He resents every minute of it and even the time he spends getting ready for it and riding to and from it. He claims he works twelve hour days because he includes every second, from the time he gets up in the morning to the time he arrives home at night. This drives me bonkers, but I won't get into that mess right now.
John's dream is to have his own business. Since we've been together, he's talked about having a business and started on different ventures, never having anything get far enough to even get a tax ID number. His entrepreneurial dream is now in high gear though as his hatred for his job increases. Since his current fixation is on pinball, he wants to open a retro arcade. He talked about this in counseling, and it seemed doable at first, but then he went on and on about how he wanted to expand, how he'd have all this time on his hands, how he could make his own schedule and how he'd eventually be able to add a restaurant onto the thing.
The doctor admitted to me that the more he talked, the more unrealistic this idea became. She's like me. She saw the time commitment involved in owning a business, particularly a restaurant, and she felt he would have less time for his family rather than more. He insists otherwise, but he's always been that way. I told her about all the other things that consumed him in the past and how I'm definitely scared of this new venture, but I don't know what to do. There's really not anything I can do when it all boils down.
The session ended with me intent to work on myself and her intent to explore John's time management and expectations more. I left feeling better. Who wouldn't feel better when the doctor agrees with you? But then I got home, and John started asking me questions.
This time, I didn't feel like sharing. Usually I go home and spill my guts, telling him every last detail. I didn't want to do that this time. I knew he would get defensive, so I tried to be brief. He must have known there was more, because he kept asking, specifically saying, "Did you talk about me?" Since I'm a horrible liar, I told him the truth, but I tried to keep it to my feelings about him. The discussion managed to touch on the business plan though, and it descended from there. Good communication was totally abandoned. Crying and yelling ensued. Hurtful things were said. We went to bed feeling utterly crappy. It certainly didn't help my mood.
I felt better the next day. I think the venting did me some good, but John was still pondering the argument. He said I gave him a lot to think about, and he was still processing. This was a good sign, because most of the time with him, it's like nothing happened. He wasn't exactly a joy to be around, but I figured it was worth it. He was thinking rather than dismissing.
Today, he invited me to lunch with him for the first time since we moved here. We ate at a nice little Italian restaurant, and we were both in good spirits. He wants to make that a regular thing. I don't think this is some big turnaround, but it's a change. I'm thankful for that.
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One Year Ago Today:
