A year ago today.

(The actual starting date of this blog...long before I got the stones to really go for it and tell anyone.)

Saturday: December 6, 2008

This blog was supposed to be born out of the shitty (we swear here) day I had yesterday. It started as a one-thing-after-another account of a day that was ultimately put out of its misery through the use of Ambien, but I have none of that to show here because, fittingly, I accidentally erased the whole thing, rendering the entire day less productive than it already was. (Showering moved back to the top of the list.)

So instead it starts here: the morning after. However, the morning after (on a good day) offers perspective (however slight) on past events, so yesterday cannot be rewritten in an honest way without incorporating this newfound wisdom: I should have taken the Ambien earlier. (You gotta know when to fold 'em.)

Perhaps the day's mood can best be captured in the following e-mail which I wrote to my husband, Dan, in response to his suggestion yesterday that we start the weekend a bit early and meet for a 5 o'clock movie:

Nope. I don't want to leave the house all day. I am so fat and lazy. Maybe I could get it in me to decorate tonight. Maybe. But I can't get myself dressed and groomed for a movie. Why did you marry me?

While the e-mail was meant in jest (hilarious, right?), poor Dan, who is never quite sure when I am going to finally give up and jump from our first-floor apartment window, called me within moments of my pressing send to ask if I was okay.

I was.

Yesterday I would have said it was the combination of a run of sleepless nights due to Dan's cold-induced snoring, a three-pound (scale confirmed) weight gain, and the sounding of my broken car alarm, all before the coffee was even brewed, that led to a day of defeat for my ass and victory for peanut butter and chocolate chips (served up in a bowl cereal-style and pictured above.) Other than to prepare myself food or drink, my movement from the couch was minimal and I, indeed, never left our apartment.

Overnight, however, I gained total clarity as to the cause of my funk which, let's face it, started well before yesterday. (The Ambien CR website states: "When you first start taking AMBIEN, use caution in the morning when engaging in activities requiring complete alertness until you know how you will react to this medication." It's 8am. Am I drinking and blogging here?)

I'm a little depressed. Shocking, I know. At the start of winter, in the midst of the holiday season, I am depressed. Not exactly a new concept. (The sting from the lack of originality when it comes to depression is the gift that keeps on giving; trouble sleeping, increased appetite, pondering divorce because your husband was the one who set off the car alarm, etc.)

Another symptom? "Loss of interest in activities or hobbies that were once enjoyable, including sex." (The National Institute of Mental Health.)

I don't want to decorate for Christmas. (You thought it was the sex thing right? Not on our first date, people.)

I don't want to haul out the holly or put up the tree before my spirit falls away. (Talk about self-medicating.) And usually, I do. I have four sisters. We're Christmas people despite being completely unreligious. Last night, while Dan and I lay on the couch, my sisters sent me notes about how they were either writing out Christmas cards, sitting in front of their trees, or drunk on eggnog and rum. I was watching a TV special about the top twenty-five Christmas movie moments and providing Dan with a cranky running commentary. (When Harry Met Sally, though wonderful in many ways, is not a friggin' holiday movie. Who makes these crappy lists?)

It's December 6th, the month is practically over anyway, do I really need another project that requires set-up and clean-up? Do I really feel like vacuuming up fake pine needles (Dan is allergic to everything) and rehanging the stockings every time they fall of the mantle? This is a harsh departure from the little girl who would "play Christmas" with her friends and was known to blare Nat King Cole's Christmas album from a portable radio at the beach in mid-July.

Thinking about when we trimmed our tree last year, I figured out why I’m not exactly eager to get up to my elbows in tinsel. Last year at this time I was pregnant. Last year we were gleeful trimming our tree and I remember Dan asking if the baby (who would have been born in July) would be crawling into the boxes of ornaments or trying to climb the tree like a cat.

"She may not be crawling yet but she'll definitely be staring at the big, sparkly thing in the middle of the living room," I told him.

We were elated last year at the time. It was our first Christmas married and I was pregnant.

I found out in January, at our 12-week appointment, that the baby had no heartbeat and had stopped developing.

So, no, I'm not exactly jolly going into things this year.

For I've grown a little leaner (Well...)
Grown a little colder,
Grown a little sadder,
Grown a little older.

This has been a long, hard year but I have grown a little stronger, too. The fact that I am outside of this depression, poking it with a stick a bit, is a testament to this.

I'm not quite sure what this blog is going to be but I'm quite sure I need to do it.

Just as I need to decorate this year.

Just as I need a little a music,
need a little laughter,
need a little singing
ringing through the rafter.

I need a little shove forward. I need a little project. I need a little proof that I'm creating. So that's what this blog will be. A little funny with the sad. A little sweet with the salty. A little chocolate with the peanut butter.

"A little snappy, happy ever after" though? That's pushing it.

P.S. (This is 2009 Lola.) So glad to not be in that place this year. Yay therapy! And Wellbutrin! And maybe even this blog...