There is a trick to keeping myself on the move and avoiding all that is rumbling around in my head. I thought that it was just because work was stressful and I wasn’t doing so well that I felt the anxiety and the pressure. I though that it was because I was dating someone new and I was trying to figure out how to balance a new person with motherhood, friendship and work that I felt overwhelming pressure from the outside. I thought it was just because I’m failing financially, intellectually and emotionally and if I worked all of those things out I would “FEEL” better.

No one would notice it if I smile at everyone and only let them see that happy goofy side of me that makes everyone like me so much. Avoiding friends is getting harder - faking it is almost impossible. Getting out of bed is no longer an act of free will its an act of desperation or an act of survival. It all depends on if I wake up mid panic attack or if I wake up to the overwhelming pressure that I carry around on my weary, slumped shoulders.

I thought that I could just have more sex with Dr. B because that’s the only thing that truly feels good. I’ve lost my love of food and, wine — all that I want is a strong cup of coffee and a cigarette. Now that I’ve quit smoking I’m sneaking cigarettes and walking the dog a lot in order to inject some nicotine into my body. I’ll try anything that feels good short of doing drugs. Illegal drugs are never the answer when I’m like this. I’m running out of things that I can feel. Its exhausting trying to look normal to everyone when I can only hear the voices inside that scream failure as a human being or fake it till you make it repeatedly like broken record. Its getting harder to stand still and fake listening and not start jumping up and down flailing my arms and start screaming about how bad I feel. Day in and day-fucking-out, I feel bad.

I spent the day yesterday hanging around my house for the first time in a month or so. The quiet time was nice; I read a book, I surfed the interent - I hated it. I’m still home and I don’t want to ever see the outside again. This is not a good sign. But staying home gave me time to evaluate the pressure to acknowledge the emotions and truly understand that I’m depressed again. I stood in the kitchen and cried after I dropped my daugher off at her friends house for the night. If I don’t do something quick I’m going to fall down hard, harder than I’ve already fallen and I might not be able to get back up this time. Each time I go through this it gets harder - each time I go through this I say never again. But here I am again, seeking wellbutrin or whatever drug the doctors plan to give me this time. You know that little pill guaranteed to make you feel normal or your life goes to crap? I promised myself that I would call the doctors office this morning. I’ve still yet to do it.

I guess writing it here makes it true. Writing it here makes it a contract. An actual agreement with myself.