Much Ado About Nothing

Nothing pretty much describes my status the last while.  I know it hasn't been forever, but it almost feels like it.  Work is suffering majorly because I can't wrap my head around focus to get in the lines I need.  I'm just waiting to get called on the carpet for that.  Everything else is suffering as well.  The running description in my head is that I'm like a battery that keeps getting only partially recharged, and while that works for the short term, it keeps me going, it isn't really good for anything else.  I'm in such need of a break, but I know it isn't going to come soon.  The downside of switching employers within the last 6 months, I don't have a lot of PTO or anything built up yet, so not much to go on.  I just have to keep hanging on, and I will.

A bright spot is that tomorrow I do get to see my psych.  Granted, the appointment is at 8 a.m., so it will be an interesting morning, but I am in.  There will be a half hour break before my regular appointment with my therapist.  At least seeing the psych I can get on some meds again.  As much as I really don't want to admit that they make that much of a difference, I guess they really do.  I wonder how much of it is placebo effect; but I also try to not keep that in mind so much when I'm taking them, want to let them do their thing to see if they help.  Given that the placebo effect can be pretty big, perhaps I should be allowing more of it. 

I start out each week and each day telling myself that I can do things, I can get in X number of lines for work, etc.  Each day I seem to fall flat with motivation waning to next to nothing not too long after waking up and getting going for the day.  All of it just piles on for guilt, though, so I'm acutely aware at all times of my failings.  I am more than acutely aware just how not well I have been and how much it is negatively affecting those around me.  It is inescapable, yet I am reminded by my husband under the guise of being helpful by pointing out that which I may not have been aware.  Today was one of those days where he picked up my slack and then proceeded to tell me about it and yell at me for it.  On the one hand I know I deserved that.   On the other, it did nothing but shame me further into the recesses of my mind, leaving me wanting nothing more than to just escape into oblivion until this all passes.  After that "episode" he seemed to drop the matter.  I guess he got his point across.   Currently, he is in bed; I waited until he had gone before writing this out.  Not sure why, I don't have anything to hide.  But I guess it is that shame thing that is a feature of this depression. 

I'm mentally coming up with a list of things that need to be done daily throughout this week and the longer the list gets, the more daunting and insurmountable it seems.  The one at the forefront of my mind is the meals for the week.  The usual pattern is something boring and predictable and it would be nice to make up something that hasn't been tried here yet.  Will I be able to come up with something that everyone will eat?  Will it be at the very least palatable?  Will it be repetitive?  The big question, will I actually do what I planned on, or will plans inexplicably change (again) at last minute (again) and other things be done?  That's the one that usually happens.  I actually get a week's worth of do-able meals planned out only to have them thrown up in the air by one thing or another in the name of accommodation.  Let's see, other than the meals/dinner, there's laundry (will there be enough sun and/or warm enough weather to warrant hanging laundry outside?), putting away the clean laundry because apparently that's something else entirely for me, general picking up.  Oh, and there's my usual disaster of a desk that I always have intention of cleaning off but never get around to doing because there is always something else to do.   And can't forget the dishes.  Sure, to a normal person, these are normal every day things that just come as habit.  For me, though, I have to plan and prepare to do things things because otherwise the living quarters will resemble a trash can.  Go me. 

Then to add on some more, will I make the time to actually get my scheduled hours in and when they're supposed to be, IN ADDITION to the lines I NEED to get (no longer a want there), and will I make time to actually be with the kids, play with them and be nice to them instead of the mean, uninvolved bitch that I've turned into?  And there's the crux of it.  I'm not me any more.  I'm some barely functional shell who merely exists.  The one question my husband seems to love asking is if I even want to get better.  What kind of question is that?  OF COURSE I do.  I really hate that he asks that.  I wish I knew how to get the heaviness out of my head, to not let things weigh on me mentally as much as they do.  Suppose that's the illness talking there, keeping me down.

Well, I believe I have gotten a fair amount out tonight.   It be time for me to hit the hay; I have appointments to get to in the morning and it will do me no good to be more tired for them than I already will be.  There is always the intention to write again soon; time will tell if that shall be the case.  And with that, I'm signing off.  To quote the Writer's Almanac:  "Be Well.  Do Good Work.  Keep In Touch."