So I've been struggling all day trying to come up with something wonderful to write about. A good list. A questionnaire (someday, I'm going to do Proust's, but I don't want to think that hard right now). I started thinking about how we were all princesses of a most high king and got this great picture of a cute girl in a tiara in my head - then nothing.
I'm pretty far gone. I don't know how I got this bad, but it's bad. I broke down and called an Intensive Outpatient Program for depression (ie, I probably should be in the lock-up unit, but I really don't want anything to do with that) today, one that I've been in before. I have an evaluation Monday.
My brain is so gobbeldygooked. I can't concentrate, I can't have simple conversations with people. I was trying to alphabetize something today and had to give up. Tim has had to do all of the housework because I'm not doing a bit of it. I'm just getting up, getting dressed, and watching inane things on TV like "Flipping Out" (and I gotta tell you, no matter how bad I get, I'll never be as crazy as that guy) and reruns of seasons of America's Top model that I've already seen 3 times. And the wanting to cry over everything goes without saying. I listened to Adele's version of "To Make You Feel My Love" 21 times today. Really.
I don't want sympathy; that's not why I'm writing this. I'm writing it more because this terrible disease can come up on you and turn you from a Nobel Laureate Neurochemist into a blathering idiot. Who has served their children chicken nuggets and cereal for all meals for the last 3 days. And is becoming enthralled with "The Kardashians." If you find that you fit this description, maybe you should find your local Intensive Outpatient Program, too.
My husband thought I shouldn't write today. He said not writing was okay (I know that) and I looked exhausted (again, always am) and I should just keep watching "Cake Boss." But I wanted you to know what was happening with me, especially if I start writing about positive affirmations and mandalas and start sounding like a hippie psychologist. So that's what's up. May or may not write tomorrow. But don't worry about me disappearing; I'm a bit hooked on this blog thing.
Oh, and I thought I'd share the lyrics to Bruce Springsteen's "Secret Garden" with you
She'll let you in her house
If you come knockin' late at night
She'll let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
She'll let you deep inside
But there's a secret garden she hides
She'll let you in her car
To go drivin' round
She'll let you into the parts of herself
That'll bring you down
She'll let you in her heart
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice
You've gone a million miles
How far'd you get
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget
She'll lead you down a path
There'll be tenderness in the air
She'll let you come just far enough
So you know she's really there
She'll look at you and smile
And her eyes will say
She's got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away