Back of the House

Dear Election Fairy, Look, I know we've had our differences. For many years, I would go to bed safe and snug on Election Night and you would bring me a new president. It wasn't always the one I wanted (perhaps the less said about 2004, the better), but he arrived nevertheless. 2000 was the first--and so far only--year you've let me down. I maintain you were mugged, but you've never said for sure. That being said, please plan for extra security tonight, because I just don't have the constitution to go through that nonsense again. Love, Lyn

A friend of mine posted a quote on Facebook today. "The only difference between a good day and a bad day is your attitude and your belief." I'm not naming the friend or the source of the quote, because a.) I don't want her to feel bad about what is, really, a generally harmless quote, and b.) It's really not the point of this post. But as someone who struggles with depression in general and who has been going through a particularly ugly episode lately (ah, how I love the change in seasons--NOT), I have to say that I these kinds of  "it's all in the attitude" quotes crawl under my skin. They're not quite triggers, but almost. What a lot of non-mentally ill people take for granted is, in fact, a fair amount of control over their attitudes. And it's what sometimes even the best meaning friends fail to understand about the average chronic depressive or anxious person. We don't have those controls.  Or, rather, they're locked away from

One of these days, I promise, really, I will have an honest-to-goodness happy, upbeat post. Yeah, today's not that day. So, unemployment. It's hard. First of all, you have that no-money-coming-in thing going on. I am incredibly lucky as my husband is well employed in a fairly recession-proof industry. But it's meant loans have gone into deferral, credit cards are off limits, my Kindle is perpetually set to offline, etc., etc. Like I said, I'm incredibly lucky, and I know that.  But given my past couple of job experiences (which frequently led to self-doubt) coupled with a chronic mood disorder, things get out of hand in my little world nonetheless. In what will no doubt echo at least one email I will receive in response to this post, it's difficult watching people complain about their jobs on Facebook and having to physically restrain oneself from commenting "AT LEAST YOU HAVE A JOB. WAH." It's totally unfair of me and intrusive into what I call

The depression treatment continues. Much like God's justice, it grinds slow, but exceedingly fine. Today has been a little rough. Kidlet's been sick with what we now know to have been a UTI, but it's meant a beggar of a fever. So I'm currently having my usual after-the-fact case of nerves. Mom, worried herself, particularly where fevers are concerned is Not Being Helpful. "Did you know your brother had convulsions from a high fever when he was 18 months old?"  "Yes, Mom, I did. Also, did I remember to thank you for the fever-phobia you installed with the other neuroses and personality quirks? Aside from that, I thought I'd let the kid run around in traffic and sleep in the park tonight." Combine that with heavy duty surgery for a friend tomorrow, a brush with death-by-breadknife (I kid you not. ALWAYS WASH YOUR HANDS WHEN YOU GET A CUT, FOLKS.) with another old friend, and having the financial tide brushing my chin, and you have one very

I swear I should just rename this blog "The Back of My Head." So, depression. It's here. It's situational AND biochemical. And it sucks. I'm not even motivated enough to self-harm or contemplate worse. I sleep a lot, and it's not to escape. It's because I can't think of anything else I'd rather do. I have no passion for anything right now. I've got ideas. I've even written outlines. But I can't take the last step to actual writing. I forced myself to take a shower today and it was the most difficult thing I've done in a long time. Every step was. An. Effort. The weather's been gorgeous and the idea of going outside makes me twitch. So, yeah. I go to my usual therapy tomorrow, and I've got a "Crap, I need to see you ASAP" call into my psychiatrist. I just want to care about something again, to have that creative fire burn again. Or, you know, not turn into a vampire. That'd be cool, too.

So, as many of you who have this blog on your radar know, I am currently unemployed. This past week, though, I had a highly successful meeting with a recruiter named Susie at a national temp/recruiting agency. Yay, right? Right, but there was something else. They required me to give a reference from my last job. That was a bit of a problem, as my supervisors from my last job adored my teaching, but were not really thrilled with how much time off I took. There was a point in the interview, where I had to say something. "About my references," I started. I don't remember my exact words, but they boiled down to this. I had some serious problems starting in September 2010, starting with a miscarriage, and I never quite bounced back. I am a chronic depressive. I am on medication, and I keep it in check with regular therapy and visits to my psychiatrist. I had problems getting to work some days, especially with a long commute. I said it. I laid everything down. It