When I am inside, whether at work or at home or elsewhere, I feel caged in and agitated. I remember when I was first diagnosed with depression, the description provided by the psychologist or whoever was of a general, "free floating" anxiety. Like I have this aura of grayness that hovers over me, full of malignant atoms whose electrons aren't arranged correctly, or something like that.
I have no motivation to exercise, to cook, to eat anything healthy. I need to lose at least 10 pounds, but I can't seem to stick with an exercise program, and despite my resolute declarations of "today will be the day I'm good," I give in to temptation because it fills an emotional void.
I am irked by the holiday season, not because I begrudge anyone their time celebrating whatever they want to celebrate, but because it means I have to find coverage for the kids on days that they don't have school because of vacation, and buy gifts when I already feel like my kids have so much fucking *stuff* in their lives that the idea of adding to the stuff in my house makes me want to tear my hair out.
I read books, which provides some distraction. Right now, I'm pleasantly amazed by Michael Lewis's ability to turn an account of the collapse of global financial markets in 2008 and beyond into a gripping page-turner (at least for me). But the distraction is temporary.
Mostly I want to be outside, not thinking.
My walk to work is the best part of my day. On the days that I can't do it, because of early meetings or whatever, I'm out of sorts and jumpy.
But even on the days that I can do it, it's too short. I'm bummed out when I get to work, because instead of walking 2 1/2 miles, I want to keep going. 10 miles might feel like enough. Or even more.
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| One of my routes to work takes me through this park. Sometimes the urge to turn south and keep walking until I reach the top of Pikes Peak is overwhelming. |
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