When you live in a broken house, after a while, you don't see the cracked panes, the tumbleweeds of dust on the floor, the dreary drips of rainwater leaking in through the punctured roof.I hadn't realized until yesterday that I'd moved into the broken house, or rather, that it had moved into me.
Like someone who suffers migraines or even epileptic seizures can sometimes tell when one is on the way, I have my own warning signs about depression, but I refused to recognize them.
To me, taking medication is a sign of weakness. From previous work experiences, I have a dread of having any record of psychiatric treatment showing up on my health benefits. I have been taking medication, but at half the recommended dosage. To prove I was tough, to prove that I'm not crazy (or only half-crazy), to prove that I can gut it out.
But I can't.
Yesterday morning, I didn't want to go to work. I wanted to stay home and sleep. If it hadn't been for two meetings scheduled, I probably would have stayed home and that would have been a very bad thing.
What I decided yesterday was to take the medication as recommended. Instead of collapsing at my desk as I usually do around 2 pm every day, I was actually doing work. Not thinking about it, not making lists for it, but actually working.
True Boss noticed this immediately.
I guess it was further along than I realized.
Now I have to take care of what I've neglected for so long, to pick up the pieces and deal with them, as I haven't been able to deal with them since December, when my aunt died and the disastrous trip to visit Emma.
I will go to New York this weekend. I will likely go to the Metropolitan Museum and drink in the Impressionists. I will buy myself a bunch of flowers.
I will get out the hammer and nails and set about rebuilding my broken house.
