Sometimes I get the blahs

Warning: this post has lots of sentences without verbs
And… fear not… funny, light-hearted Holly will be back ASAP! Promise.

Today was such a beautiful day. Warm in the sun, pleasantly cool in the shade. I had such plans for the day: basic household chores, get a little writing done, play with the kids outdoors, that kind of stuff.

By late morning I fell into a bit of a funk. Actually, I’ve been in a funk for the past several days. Life has seemed a little more tedious than usual. John’s late nights have seemed longer, the bedtime rituals more daunting, the laundry more oppressive, my phone silent, my head achy, my mind wandering to lonely places I shouldn’t let it wander to.

All of this caught up to me as I sat on the landing of my stairs, listening to Ben and Daniel fight over a toy while Caleb pestered me for a snack. I sat there, feeling the mundane rituals of housewifery weigh me down and I suddenly felt so overwhelmed that I became nauseous.

It was then I remembered I hadn’t filled my prescription in the last couple of days.

The prescription. The antidepressant prescription. The one that keeps Holly going lightly instead of going downhill fast.

I went to grab the bottle to call my trusty pharmacist when I saw those words no one in my state wants to see: NO MORE REFILLS.

Which meant I would have to go to Rite Aid and plead my case and get them to give me some pills to tide me over for the next few days. Which meant I would have to call my doctor, who would tell me I needed to come in so he could assess the situation.

A normal person, if there is such a being, which I doubt, is able to manage life so she doesn’t get bogged down in the details. Perhaps there is a schedule: chores, work, meals, kids, extra-curricular activities. A person in a depressed state is unable to rationally plan the day accordingly. All of the day’s little challenges and tasks and responsibilities seem heaped together in a tangled, garbled mess and the impossibility of getting all you need to get accomplished overshadows the possibility of getting something accomplished. Which, of course, leads to anxiety and fear and hopelessness, and all of it seems so vast and insurmountable but at the same time, utterly pointless.

And then you are numb, sitting stagnantly on the landing of your stairs, surrounded by toys and mismatched socks and the mail you were going to sort through. The sing-song sounds of children’s television play in the background but the kids aren’t even paying attention to it, which means of course that they probably watch too much television, which makes you feel like an even crappier mother.

And making lunch seems exhausting. Thinking about making dinner nearly causes a panic attack. The rest of the day goes by like static or a monotone hum or the buzzing of the fly that slipped noisily into the house when you opened the garage to take the rotting, putrid garbage out, filled with dirty disposable diapers that will sit in some landfill for years and years and years.

When you realize you are stumped about dinner and that your husband isn’t coming home until late and that your daughter hasn’t eaten a vegetable in weeks and weeks, the tears start to flow. Then come the choking sobs, the sniveling runny nose and the rocking back and forth like a frightened child. Because that’s what you are: a frightened child with four frightened children who have no idea why they’re mother is so… sad.

And of course, it isn’t rational. I love my life. I love my children. I love my home and my mundane rituals like attempting the morning crossword while Ben draws pictures of Jedi Knights next to me or getting dressed while Ella plays with my makeup brushes. This sadness is a biological phenomenon and no one can convince be otherwise. Because when I’m on the medication, I’m as close as I can get to the “normal” woman who has a messy but happy home and who doesn’t go over the edge over the thought of what she will do if her two-year olds refuse to take a nap again.

I got my “emergency supply” of meds and will be fine tomorrow. Today, I have a killer headache because I’ve been grinding my teeth since this morning. Today I wanted to be anywhere but home.

Tomorrow, I will be home again.