I'm sad and pathetic.
I don't mean that in the, "oh hey, strangers on the internet, I'm feeling bad about myself; please tell me why I'm awesome" way. (Although, feel free to tell me I'm awesome if you're so inclined.)
What I mean is that I feel sad a lot of the time, and compared to who I was, who I'd like to be, and what I know I'm capable of, I'm pathetic.*
It's understandable. I spent all of my 20s and a good portion of my 30s coping with death, helping other people cope with death, financially supporting my now-husband-and-father-in-law/then-boyfriend-and-his-father, and working a series of jobs I loathed, and that effectively eviscerated my self-esteem. As someone who has struggled with depression a good chunk of her life, and who seems to have a familial predisposition towards it, you can imagine what a fucking ray of sunshine this made me. (Short answer: Not very sunny at all.)
So I did the rational thing. I moved. I didn't want to live in Florida any more, and change of scenery will do me good and force some much needed changes, right? I found a new place, met new people, started doing things I enjoy, and very patiently waited to heal. SPOILER ALERT: moving does not make it magically better.
It's been a year and a few months, and, in fact, I ain't anywhere near better. Don't get me wrong; I've improved. In fact, improving has been part of the problem. Because I'm not self-abusive, feeling despondent, or trying desperately not to be suicidally inclined to jab pens in my eyes, I've been able to pretend everything is A-OK. It's not, but I'm functional enough for my old friend avoidance to kick in.
This past few weeks have been especially rough. Right on the heels of Ducky and I getting married, I got bad family news. Sick mom, bad family news. I also had a very clear blueprint of the direction I was letting my life go. It was not pretty. I managed to keep it together for a few weeks, but last night I finally lost my shit in a spectacular way.
I don't have quiet meltdowns, by the way. I'm sure my neighbors love this about me. I'd be more inclined to feel bad, if I didn't live in tiny, shitty, low-rent apartments. All I have to say to my neighbors is, I haven't got people I owe money to banging on my door at 3am, so you will cope with my emotional trauma, motherfuckers.
Anyway, to sum up, I'm more than a little broken, but that's fine. I'm not tin-hat-on-the-side-of-the-road broken so that's a plus in my column, and I'm trying not to wind up stay-in-your-house-and-never-accomplish-anything-while-you-drink-and-wait-to-die broken. Also good!
P.S. If you want to read someone delineating what depression and avoidance are like in an actually funny way, instead of just rambling in an over-long blog post, check out Hyperbole and a Half.
* Feel free to ignore this whole post. This is me, explaining things to myself, reminding myself why I don't have my shit together, and that it's OK. I'm still good enough, smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.