dianaschnuth

I’ve been feeling kind of meh for the past few weeks. I haven’t had a proper workout since before Thanksgiving — some I skipped because I had other obligations, some I skipped because I was tired and I used that as an excuse (can’t have me lifting with bad form and hurting myself), and some I just didn’t feel like doing. (So much for that Discipline Over Motivation thing.)

Whether as a result of not working out or just correlated with it, I’ve also been extra stupid tired lately. Tired and hungry is a Very Bad Combination for me in the evenings, because my lizard brain goes foraging for food and doesn’t quit. Then I also stay up later when I get stupid tired, just because I don’t think to check the clock and get my ass upstairs at a reasonable hour. Then, because I’m overtired and I ate so late in the evening, I have trouble getting to sleep. Once I do get to sleep, I have trouble getting up (I’ve overslept my alarm every single day this week).

I’ve also been rocking crazy vivid dreams that don’t feel particularly restful, like last night’s dream about me being incarcerated and slated for execution because of a traffic violation, and my dream-world attorney was dead and his son had started a restaurant instead of continuing the practice, so I had no representation. Especially being an atheist, the You’re Gonna Die Soon dreams are extra super unrestful.

I’ve been dealing with early morning headaches and general fatigue all week, and today my eyes are visibly puffy. I’ve gained a few pounds over the past several weeks. I feel nasty, both physically and mentally.

I’ve just been in a fuck-all mood lately, too. I’m tired and I don’t give a shit. I try not to let it affect my interactions with others; unfortunately, that extra social effort during the day means I sometimes snap at my son in the evenings when I’m extra tired. Which makes me feel like an ass.

It’s dark and cold and I’m tired and irritable. I don’t want to be active; I’d rather park myself in front of the TV and eat lots of carbohydrates.

Which is exactly what I don’t need.

It doesn’t help that it’s the Christmas Season, which means I’m supposed to be cheery and generous and OMG It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year — and I only got one one batch of chocolate chip cookies baked and in the deep freeze before my brain was like NOPE. FUCK IT.

I have a long weekend coming up (I had to use my last two Personal Days before they expired), so hopefully that will recharge me and help me get back on track. I’ll spend some time sleeping in (“No waking Mommy up before 8:00”) and baking cookies with my son and enjoying my husband’s company for Date Night and getting my hairs did on Monday morning.

I know I need to rein in my evening eating. I need to get back to being active at least three days a week (preferably daily). I also need more sleep than the average bear — nine hours  a night is just right for me, and the seven I’ve been getting just ain’t cutting it.

As with so many other aspects of my life, I know what to do. I just need to do it.

I wonder if I should bring this up to my CNP at my next visit. I wonder if being meh for a few-week stretch every few months constitutes clinical depression that requires medical attention. I don’t know. For me, this is normal. When I neglect myself, it shows. When I feed and exercise myself properly, I’m fine.

It’s just a matter of a.) identifying what tips the dominoes and b.) determining what it takes to stop the cascade and right things again.

I clearly need to step back and commit myself to some sort of mental reset. I’m still in a blasé mood most of the time, especially in mornings and evenings. –Actually, no, it really is most of the time, now that I think of it. I get brief reprieves when I’m eating lunch or working out or interacting with others, but mostly I’m really in a funk.

I feel affected in every area of my life. At work, I can’t concentrate. At home, I lose my shit with my son much sooner than I should. After his bedtime, I trudge down the stairs and think about how this preschooler power struggle isn’t what I wanted my life to be. Then I either stuff my face or go down the smartphone rabbit hole (or both). Then I stay up too late. Then I oversleep. Rinse and repeat.

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I’ve never been officially diagnosed with depression. As a teen, I wanted help, and I even asked for help — but in retrospect, I’ve chalked it up to hormones and typical teen drama. As a young adult, I put the blame on myself for allowing my days and nights to get turned around in college, causing a spiral of oversleeping and poor academic performance. Now, in middle age (*shudder*), I throw the blame on myself yet again for fostering poor sleeping habits and just having a boring life in general.

I find myself writing about this quasi-depression often enough, though, that I wonder — is this normal? Do other people find that every few months, there’s a stretch of a few days to a week or longer where they really just don’t give a shit?

I’m overtired, unable to concentrate (except on writing this, so I think that’s irony?), and have no interest in doing things that would normally be exciting for me — today’s yoga class, for instance, or mailing exposed rolls of film off to be developed. My sense of responsibility is strong enough (thanks to parenthood) to get me out of bed, get my kid up, get myself to work, cook meals, and do all the necessary things… so I’m not really depressed, right? Depressed people spend all day in bed because they can’t bring themselves to get up. That’s not my M.O., so I’m not depressed. Right?

At my last visit with my GP, the nurse asked me something much more epic — something along the lines of “Do you ever feel hopeless?” Hopeless? No, tired and apathetic and disinterested are definitely different from hopeless — and it’s not all the time.

My brain tells me that the correct solution to all this is, “Suck it up, Buttercup.” Therapy might help, or meds might help, but maybe I ought to see if I can help myself first. You know, eat right, exercise, meditate (zazen, walking, writing, etc).

If I can help myself, then I’m not really depressed. Right?