Yesterday evening was bad. Worse than I’ve been in months. I watching an episode about the main character realizing she’s addicted to pain pills, and at the end I thought how nice it could be if I had some happy pills to take. And the thought didn’t scare me, I legitly considered it, almost hopeful, for a moment or two. I then knew I was in trouble. I ended up crying into my “pregnant lady” pillow, as it’s called in my family. I cried because I thought I was finally getting better, finally starting to come out of this oppressive depression. Even though they’ve been fleeting, I’ve had moments of being happy. I didn’t used to. But no. Pretty much every day the last week I’ve been unable to do anything after getting the kids into bed, just no desire and not enough will to force myself. I’ve not wanted to watch my Halloween movies for almost 3 weeks. I had a great Halloween party last weekend, and I didn’t enjoy it – at all. I was just there making it happen. I was just satisfied that both girls had a great time. I cried because I’m tired of not being happy. And I cried because to get the help, or even pills, I need, I have to put in time and energy I don’t have the energy or desire to give.
Last night I had a dream about Mom. We were at Mom’s house (looked like the one we lived in while I was in high school though it was supposed to be Mom’s last house). We – Michael and I and whomever – talked about Mom, and what was going on with her and what she needed, and we (I) did some of the things. Eventually I went looking for Mom (“Where is she anyway?!?”). And I found her! We talked about what was going on with her – bowel obstruction – and what she needed. Mom was in good spirits, smiling, and willing – and able! – to do what she needed to.
When I woke up, I felt so much better. It was a good dream. :) It was a good morning.