Should I bother?

Ever since the fall, I have been suffering from what my doctor describes as “deep” depression. It has been so deep that I have not had one ounce of enthusiasm in anything I do. I hate waking up, therefore I sleep as much as possible. I hate having to shower, get dressed, comb my hair, brush my teeth or get dressed. I physically hurt even attempting to do the mundane, everyday, “normal” things that everyone must do in order to register as a productive human being. I have gained an enormous amount of weight this past year. I am 6ft tall and started down this spiral of destruction weighing in at about 145-155 pounds, depending on the day of the week, the tide, the moon phase, or whatever else effects my scale to tip between those numbers.

Today, I cannot even fathom getting on a scale. Truth be told, I am so terrified to weigh myself that I haven’t done so since sometime in 2006. Being tall, I usually can carry the extra pounds and hide them well. But because this weight gain has been more than I can even try and guess, I no longer fit in any of my clothing. None. Usually, when things get a little (or a lot) tight on me, I refuse to buy new things. I suffer through the denim digging into my waist and stomach until I do something about it.

But this year? Ugh! I have had to purchase new pants. Nothing worse than shopping and finding no pleasure in it….

I went from jean size 8/10 to a 14. And I squeeze my ass into a size 12 IF, and only IF I try not to breathe for the day I decide to wear them. My thighs now rub together, a little reminder of my bulge. My shirts and sweaters no longer lay flat, but have that tell-tale sign of flesh bulging beyond the waist.

If it wasn’t bad enough that I gained weight and felt like shit, I also decided that since I was no longer worthy of taking care of my body, I would continue on the path of destruction by barely wearing a stitch of make-up. The only attempt I would make would be to try and cover the VERY LARGE black streaks that some people refer to as “bags” under their eyes. My blackness was not bags. They were extremely DARK and THICK stripes that ran from the inside corner of my eye, right along the bottom of that “bag” and stopped around the middle of my cheek. And the inside corners of my eyes look as though I went 12 rounds with Mike Tyson. And lets not even get into the black/blue color that reflected off of my eyeglasses. Because as you can guess, I was no longer going to bother with contact lenses either. Being a natural red-head, my skin is almost translucent. Therefore, neither cover up, cover sticks, highlighters nor magic wands can get rid of these unsightly stains. And I tried “Googling” for a solution, but no one out in cyber space has a recommendation that has worked. So if you have any suggestions, do tell…. I even considered tattoos over the lines colored the same as my skin. Kidding…But seriously, the more I sleep the darker these stains seem to get.

Since my main diet consists of sugar-free Red Bull, cigarettes and crackers with melted cheese, it is any wonder I am even here today. Caffeines, nicotines and saltines. And not much else besides the occasional pizza we ordered from where my eldest son works. Thank goodness I have an understanding family that fends for themselves for the most part. My youngest, Ty, has had little more than fast-food, grilled cheese, burgers, pb&j, soup, canned foods and cereal this past year. And I am more than a little ashamed. I am so disgusted with my uncaring attitude. What can possibly make a mother feel like she is in so much pain that she cannot make a decent meal at least 3 times a week? Can depression be that greedy, that it robs me of my maternal responsibilities? My eldest son has stepped up somewhat, recognizing my earlier signs of the depression. But because this bout has been so severe, he was not only getting disgusted with me, but he was angry and scared with the obvious decline of my cleaning, cooking, washing clothes… Anything that took an ounce of physical movement was always put off until it was usually too late. And how many times did I vow that tomorrow would be different. I would get up and NOT drive Ty to school in my pajamas. I would cook an entire meal and we would all eat together, at a table, like humans. But those tomorrows never came really. Once in a blue moon I would push myself to do ONE of those things a week. But not often.

Which leads me to my point of this entry. Ty joined Cub Scouts last year, against my better judgement. My ex-mother-in-law is wonderful. She is in charge of the after-care program at Ty’s school, so he goes directly to her on Thursday’s and she takes him to scouts. I said no, that I wasn’t interested. Yep, didn’t care that my son was interested. More concerned about what demands this scouting thing would put on my napping on Thursdays. She felt that his interest in this activity outweighed my laziness and scoffing, so she asked if she could take charge of anything that a parent normally had to be called upon for. You know, those noisy and unorganized monthy Troop meetings. His den is small, only about 5 boys. But I told her that I would pay whatever the monetary fees were, but I wanted no part of any of the activities. What an a-hole she must think I am huh? But when your feelings and opinions of yourself are that low, you honestly don’t care what others think. Believe me, she could feel no less about my parenting abilities than I already do. Why is that? I have such a hard time grasping it.

And the sad part is, I always considered myself lazy, and just getting lazier and lazier with age. I didn’t recognize the fact that I got not one joyous feeling from doing anything productive. As I would be doing a must-do chore, I only looked forward to getting it done so that I could return to my bed and my laptop. The saddest part was that even those fun activities, such as going to the movies, or getting in the car to go get ice cream were looked upon with such dread. Not only did I not consider going down the shore a fun activity, I am sure I also made it “unfun” for everyone else too. I will just sit there, reading a book, and watching my Timex, praying for this fun to end.

Writing about this is actually making me sick. To think that I could be that cruel and lazy just kills me.

Anyhow, somehow I got talked into taking Ty to his Cub Scout obligation this morning. My poor ex-mil must have dreaded having to ask me to help out. I said yes, knowing I would have a resentment the entire time. The boys had to go to the 9/11 memorial that was built at a local park to do a winter clean up. That consisted of raking and bagging leaves, picking up garbage in the surrounding areas, and making the site somewhat inviting to others. So when Tim woke me this morning at 9am, I was in instant bitch mode. Until I went upstairs and woke Ty, who was none too eager about the whole thing anyway. So I poured him juice, threw some cereal in a bowl, got dressed, packed my car with rakes and gloves and headed out. And for the first time in at least 2 weeks, I noticed to sun. It was shining. And it was actually a beautiful day out there! So I made a decision to enjoy myself. And the funniest thing happened. I enjoyed myself. And I enjoyed my son today. We had a great time. And after we were done at the park, we went over to the doctors, so that she could look at a small, circular rash that has decided to spread. Excema. It was then that she informed me that he has a sinus infection. How did I NOT know that my son was sick? Am I that sick? Normally guilt would be the day breaker for me. I NORMALLY would have decided that I was just a shitty mother, and take Ty home so that I could lick my wounds and beat myself up in my usual position….lying down with my laptop on. But a miracle happened today. I decided that I could feel guilty and STILL go on with a productive day. So he and I went shopping, then McDonald’s (hey, I never expected to get better all at once now) and we came home and ate together, at the dining room TABLE!!! With Tim and eldest son and Ty and I. We haven’t done that in forever. And it felt so good.

But being on these meds, I was hoping that these days would come automatically. Why is it taking work for me to “act” normal? Shouldn’t I have longer bouts of feeling good? Because I still don’t feel good 80% of the time. I still want to hide. I still want to isolate. I still hate myself. I’m still a shitty Mom most of the time. I still hate getting out of bed. And the effort it takes me to “act” normal still hurts me, most of the time. But it is a day like today that makes me hopeful for more days like it. I’m not asking to win the lottery here. But I guess I am asking for a miracle just the same.

Should I call my doctor. I have been on the Cymbalta since Christmas. 60mg a day. Should I consider “upping” the dose? Is it not working at all and I need to try something different? And then after asking myself these questions, out of nowhere comes the question, “Should I even bother trying to get better? Maybe this is just supposed to be my life.”

Whew!