a hand, reaching out of a stormy sea, with black clouds overhead
My grandma once told me of a great-great-grandad who walked out into the sea until only his hat was floating. I, on the other hand, do not wish to ruin a perfectly good hat.

Meh.

Meh: a Rock Opera. That’s how I feel today. Depressed. Down. Malaise. Ennui. Bummed. In general, I just can’t be arsed. (Been watching lots of British television.) Just wanted to share. Waller a bit. Maybe talk myself out of it. (I do my best work when I’m spouting off with good advice I need to take my damn self.) Ironic how, just when you need it most is when you just can’t be bothered to Self Care.

When you need to Self Care, but you just… f*cking… can’t…

Mental Health (Self) Care is haaaard, y’all. Not everyone understands. I was once in a relationship with someone who told me, “Well, you *know* you’re depressed, why don’t you just snap out of it?” That was one of many coffin nails in our ill-thought alliance. If you’ve never been depressed – reaaaally depressed – then you have no clue what it’s like. I’m not talking being sad for a good reason. I’m talking, “Everything’s great and I should be chuffed, but I’m depressed anyway.” For weeks (sometimes months) on end. REAL depression. It sucks. Hard.

My favorite comedian Maria Bamford’s “Homeopathic Remedy for Depression” , like every other bit she does, cheers me up. Check it out.

WTF?!

My Ex (who, incidentally, wasn’t depressed, but only because he was a Narcissist with Delusions of Grandeur & living in a complete fantasy world,) was of the “Pull Yourself Up By Your Bootstraps” school of mental health. The big problem there? Physics. Trying to pull yourself up by your bootstraps always ends in frustration. And broken laces.

dirty work boots with straps hanging down
Anyone who exhorts you to “…pull yourself up by your own bootstraps…” is an idiot. Because… Physics.

That said, I am usually pretty good a doing just that. Until I met my husband, James, I really only had myself to rely on. I had been let down enough to know that the only one who is always there for me is me, so I’d just soldier on. Ever try to be attractive, witty, and entertaining at a gig when all you really want to do is die? I have. And I usually can pull it off, (“I was merely acting! Line?”) but it takes a Herculean effort. And it saps whatever strength I’d banked to try and bolster myself. On the other hand, my music makes *others* happy, and I enjoy singing, humming, toning, and OM-ing (see “There’s No Place Like OM!” ) and the deep, oxygenating breath that comes with it, so call it a wash.

The last month has been pretty painful. I was sick recently, then injured myself. Twice. That on top of physical issues I was born with, and multiple spinal injuries from a car wreck a decade ago. Add to that the fact that I can’t sleep, (or even stay in one position for more than 20 minutes due to my injuries), and that is a perfect recipe for depression. (“Add alcohol, shake well, serve.” I’m kidding. Kinda…)

Chicago. Chicago. It’s a helluva town. (& I’m still bummed.)

In the depths of this depression I had to go to Chicago for a week. The trip had been planned for months, so there was no “I don’t feel like it.” (Bootstrap-a-rama…) My anxiety and OCD make for lovely traveling companions, I assure you. I literally start packing for trips weeks in advance. So what if most people forget creature comforts on trips? But for me, not having things to make me feel better in an uncomfortable situation is sheer misery. Add strange beds and strange food, and my vacation is fraught with peril. And don’t get me started on air travel. It gives me a panic attack just thinking about the TSA check. (Walking in my socks where a host of other people just walked in their sweaty socks is a f*cking nightmare.)

Just a little Kevin Meaney song I sing to myself sometimes

So while I did have some fun while I was there, I was exhausted, hurt, ill-nourished, and about as far outta my comfort zone as I care to be when I’m depressed. I missed my bed, my pillows, my dog, my normal food… my comfort. (I’ve told you before, but in case you’ve forgotten, I am a delicate flower.)

“My Wife is soooo depressed…”

“HOW depressed is she?!?” (Meta-bad joke about a bad joke.) How depressed am I? Well, I started this blog post to test some updates over a month ago. I figured, “I’ll feel better in a few days,” so I scheduled it to post in a week. And then I couldn’t look at it – or my emails – for over a month. (Seriously, it auto-posted as the first paragraph, with the title, “Blah, Blah, Bloggedy, Blah…” because I am hella creative when I’m bummed out.) (NOTE: ^ Will probably use that title at some point. Waste not, Want not.)

So I fell in a hole. I have tried to get out: comfort food, comfort television, snuggling with hubby playing my “Happy” playlist at full volume, riding my bike (that did help, and after 2 miles I remembered why I loved bike-riding so much as a kid, so I just kept going… and going… 5 miles later and I’d hobbled myself but good, so short-term good, long-term OW!,) Om-ing helps a bit, as does performing, but I just can’t seem to shake this. So I guess I’ll just keep plugging on and try to look forward to something good. Am going to California soon to see the Redwoods. I like trees. BIG trees should help. Hiking. Breathing mountain air. A starry night in the middle of the desert. And being with My Love. I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. Let’s hope it ain’t a train.

fella hiking into a mountain tunnel
Is it The Light at the End of the Tunnel? Or is it a speeding train? (Tomato, Tomahto…)

If anyone has any good ideas about how I can get out of this hole, shoot me an email, or comment down below. I could really use some input. Thanks. (BTW, I see a therapist, and I’ve tried drugs, but that just seems to mask the symptoms, not address the problem. So… Meh.

mama trish