I normally enjoy my bedtime routine. First of all, I love Vaseline and Neosporin, which I put all over my arms, my legs, face, hair, all over. Plus my pm regimen gives me a weird sense of accomplishment, as if I've actually done something (which I haven't).
But I seriously just couldn't get out of bed. I had tons of chemistry to study for, so while I had my books and papers strewn about me, I paid them no attention.
And it was the same thing this morning. I had lots of reasons to get out of my bed. I'd spent the entire night dreaming about the Flying Dutchman ghost off of Spongebob Squarepants. As he and his henchmen could neither feel pain nor die (again), I was scared and very much relieved to wake up back in my bed. Though it was 7am, and I should have been headed to the gym and/or studying, I just went back to sleep to dream about Andrea Louise putting ads in Polish newspapers.
After finally convincing myself that I would really, really regret it later if I didn't get out of bed at 9am, I jumped in the shower and reflected upon my past few weeks.
I'm not one to stick with things for very long. Don't want to gather any dust or anything, you know. So I thought I'd just been fighting my typical wanderlust, trying to temper down the urge to pack up my things and head to Jamaica (seriously, this is where my new life in my head was going down). I should go to New York this weekend and see Dora*, I told myself. I should go back to Jackson, MS for the St. Patrick's Day parade, I planned. I should throw a Mardi Gras party at our house and bake a king cake! Make some hurricanes, throw some beads at the chirrens. That would really spice things up.
But oh, clinical depression, I should have recognized your strong embrace. Like a lot of people, I go through bouts during which life is a constant battle to keep my head above water. I wait for my day to drift into the next with joyless abandon. I'm not sad. I am neurotic and depressed, that doesn't mean that I'm sad. Actually, sadness would be a welcome alternative. As I've mentioned, I love to cry; I relish my tears. But Monday on NPR's Tell Me More, this woman was essentially eulogizing one of her dearest friends and not a tear did fall. Now that's messed up.
The absence of tears indicates I'm no longer experience emotions like I LOVE to do (Are you Passionate? and all that Neil Young jazz) as blegh and blah are not official emotions.
Typically, Chokolate, My Older Man Friend, and Boo Kitty would have pulled me out of this funk with ease. But, alas, they're in Albania, Mississippi, and Alabama, respectively. So my new plan (because you know I always have a plan) is to start a blog ... oh wait, already tried that one? Well, maybe I'll get a box of herbs from the hippie sister and just ride this thing out.
* She's there for a job interview.