That bitch called depression

Sometimes the effort it takes to get out of bed in the morning is overwhelming. I want to stay in bed and just sleep the days away. Except, when I’m in bed I can’t sleep. All I do is toss and turn and watch the clock. The urge to burst into tears is always there. The slightest push and full on tears will be pouring down my cheeks.

It feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on me. I smile and laugh and put on a happy face (or at least try) when I am at work or with friends. But it’s an act. I feel alone, yet have no desire to make the effort to be around people.

I am stressed to the max. I took a stress test recently and my stress rating was 463.

150 – 199: Represents mild life stress
200 – 299: Represents moderate life stress
300+ : Represents major life stresses, and a strong possibility of presenting stress symptoms.

Again, my number was 463! And you know what my stress symptom is…depression. I am apathetic and ambivalent. I am depressed. And I feel guilty for being depressed. Yes, I'm stressed, but I have a lot of great things going on in my life too. It feels selfish to be depressed and sad, when I should be happy and grateful. Yet I know depression isn't my fault, but the guilt is there none the less.

The last time I felt like this I was in college taking 20+ credits a semester, trying to get two completely unrelated bachelors (a science degree and a liberal arts degree) in four years, and an uber stressful living situation. Along with being involved in campus life and all my other extracurricular activities and working. I did something about it. I got on antidepressants and started talking to a counselor. I took care of myself and I was able to feel “normal” again.

Here I am almost a decade later and the demons have come back. I feel the same as I did then and I feel just as helpless. I need to talk to a Dr and most likely get on antidepressants again. I have a family history of depression and I know it is a chemical imbalance that is only being exacerbated by stress. I disliked how I felt on antidepressants last time, but they did help, and there are different options available these days. I hate the thought of being “dependent” on a pill to feel normal again. I know what I need to do, the hardest part is finding the strength and energy to make the appointment and go. When really I just want to go home and crawl under the covers.

***For the record, I do not have feelings of wanting to hurt myself. I don't think I would be better off dead. I am not a danger to myself.***

Little Dude

I took a blogging hiatus. Obviously…

At the end of May beginning of June my world exploded into crazy. Work, always stressful. Money, never enough. Falling more in love with a wonderful man, amazing! Having my heart stolen by his adorable son, precious. Finding out that precious little boy tested positive for meth, earth shattering. Helping Stuart fight for and get sole custody (temporary until Oct and it’s made official), worth every sleepless night, stress headache, and tear shed.

Today is 8 weeks that Little Dude has been with his daddy and away from his drugged out mother. In 8 weeks he has gone from a sickly, underweight, scared baby to a happy, talkative, healthy little boy. In those 8 weeks he has thrived (he’s grown a whole inch!). Everyone talks about how happy he seems and carefree. A 3 year old should always appear happy and carefree. They shouldn’t be screaming and crying and making themselves vomit when they have to go back to their mother’s at the end of the weekend. At 3 life is supposed to be easy. There should not be anxiety attacks when you are 3. And at 3, a child should definitely not be mimicking smoking a bong or meth pipe.

I never thought I could despise someone as much as I despise BM (baby mama). Knowing what she has done to her son…she is supposed to be the one keeping him safe, instead she is the one inflicting the damage. Never once has she even acknowledged that her son tested positive for meth, never once. It is always about blaming someone else. Even once her own drug test came back, positive for meth, ecstasy, and marijuana, she still said Stuart (whose test was clean) was the one who gave Little Dude the drugs.

I don’t know what her delusional fantasyland is like, but I am happy to not live there with her. And more importantly, neither does Little Dude.

Oct seems so faraway, when the final orders will be decided. But it will be here before I know it. I get worried that something might go wrong and somehow she will be allowed to get him back. It terrifies me. Then I have to remind myself that she is the drug user, she is the one whose entire family has drug histories and trouble with the law, she is the one who misses court dates and important meetings with people who have a big say in the outcome (Child Family Investigator), she is the one who doesn’t always make her nightly phone calls and then makes up lame excuses as to why, she is the one who misses appointments with CASA to start her supervised visits. She is the one who is shooting herself in the foot and ensuring she never has custody of her son again.

For Little Dude’s sake I hope that one day she is able to get herself together and her act cleaned up and be a part of his life. But for now I am happy with her being as far away from him as possible.

And now I leave you with a picture of a happy 3 year old, chilling in his self made ball pit with some books and a puzzle: