I was getting my ankle examined after a nasty fall in the spring of 2000 when the doctor looked at my friend and asked her a variety of questions. Questions that I was stunned to learn the answers to: is she irritable? is she negative? does she have low energy?
All of which she nodded yes to him about – and then vehemently (and lovingly) shook her head to me with a look saying “I’m telling him the truth, Anna, whether you like it or not.”
Bewildered, I listened as he expressed his concern that I was depressed. He told me what I was likely feeling and as soon as he started talking it all became so clear: ohmigawd what I feel is different and has a name and isn’t normal and is really, really, REAL.
I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t feel that way: muddled thoughts, low self-esteem if any at all and a general gray overcast on everything in my life.
It’s come and gone since then at various times but has been back with a vengeance for a while now. Looking back on my posts, I can see it plain as day that something was changing in me again – something sort of out of my control yet so very controlling. Something making me lose hope in the world and myself, making the simple act of getting out of bed a true chore. It makes me intolerant, snippy and cold. It makes me hate myself with a vengeance I can’t even explain – I do not deserve to be happy, I do not deserve to look or feel good about myself and I certainly don’t deserve the unconditional love that Fred and Elliot give me every day.
I am unhappy. I am frustrated. I am ... well, me.