At least that's how I'm feeling right now.

This has been sneaking up with me, and I think it's got me, and I need to deal with it now, even though all I want to do is fall. Just lay down (lie down? I'm not motivated enough to Google the difference) and drift and fall into a nice cozy darkness and breathe deep and cocoon and hibernate. Just escape. Just go away for a while.

I don't get to do that, of course. So I slog through my days. (The slogging has been slight, imperceptible, but today I am feeling it so much more.) Tomorrow I am going to take advantage of my behavioral health plan and call up for a referral for a therapist type person or some such.

Why do I resist this so much? Every time I'm not depressed, I want to think, this is it, I'm done with it, I'm free! and I'm always so damn caught off guard when it comes back.

And I don't want to do a thing. I want motivation and inspiration in a pill. I want easy answers. I want everything handed to me on a platter.

Or, conversely, I just want to take a break.

(Even though I'm hoping that I'm feeling this way today primarily because I got very little sleep last night, and I'll feel better tomorrow, even if that's the case, I am having to acknowledge that this is a growing trend.)

Very little appeals to me right now. The idea of doing anything that I usually enjoy sounds like too much work. I don't want to go outside in the cold and the dark. Brian had invited me to go see an Icelandic jazz pianist tonight (hee!) but I'd already made a platelet donation appointment tonight. When I got there (oddly enough, I found myself on the verge of tears while sitting in the waiting room, for no reason (that I could discern) at all) it turned out that my iron level was too low to donate. So I was momentarily tempted to call Brian and see if I could still meet him - but all I wanted to do was run home and hide.

I feel like I'm not reaching out to my friends as much as I would like to. I miss them. I am withdrawing into myself. I want to reach out. But each email takes such effort. And every phone that I don't make multiplies, where I feel sick at the thought of picking up the phone, sick at how awful I've been for staying away.

(Am I exaggerating just for drama? I'm not sure.)

You guys are all great, by the way. All your wonderful comments, the way you reach out to me and let me know I'm not writing into a void. It makes me feel guilty, that I'm not giving so much back right now. I'm trying.

And I suck. The safe sex comments. We started off with condoms, moved to just contraceptives (first spermicidal film, now the pill) cause we'd both been non-sexually active and clean for over a year. But I read all of your concerns for me and colored them as judgements. I totally suck. Why do I take everything so personally?

Last night Ben and I were fooling around (and I suspect that this might be why his depressions make me wary - it shines a spotlight on mine, or does it make mine grow? I don't think he's even all that seriously depressed right now, but sometimes it is so hard to talk with him, I never know how to get past the protective layers - especially mine) and I felt like everything I did was wrong, every move I made or overture was clumsy or ugly and I wanted to cry. Cause I'm not performing correctly, cause I'm wrong.

I think I might be writing myself into circles.

I hate how I feel when I feel like this. The way I look at other people with ambition and energy and vibrant lives and I feel so drab and colorless next to them. I feel like I am lacking something, so very lacking.

I'm not sure if this is such a good idea. Am I making myself feel better by writing, or am I making it worse, stewing in it, wallowing, churning it up?

Even if I do feel better tomorrow, I'll still make that call. Cause I deserve to feel better than this. (Maybe I'm just avoiding the fact that everyone feels pain. I can't expect to be Pollyanna Sunshine 24-7, right?)