Most people think of a lost weekend as a drinking binge. Something hedonistic, something wild. But a lost weekend can happen with depression, too, and it’s a lot less fun than you think. I know, how fun could it be, right? It’s depression! But trust me, it’s less fun than that.
I’m tempted to start at the very beginning – the trigger, in shrinkspeak – but I won’t. Let’s just say that a confluence of unfortunate circumstance caused me to retire at 9:30 Thursday evening and not emerge until 8 on Friday night. That’s how I deal, sometimes. Sleeping. I managed to stay up for a few hours, long enough to watch a movie, before trudging back to bed to read Mashable on my iPhone. I didn’t want to sit up, even, all my limbs were heavy and my chest felt like a lead brick. So I lay there, pinned, until I fell asleep.
I guess it’s Saturday now, and I’m up. We can thank the quasi-anorexic in me for that – I only got out of bed so I could go to the gym. But then I ran some errands and installed a new hard drive in B!’s MacBook. I did these things because they are What I’m Supposed To Do, they are supposed to Make Me Feel Better. And I guess they have, kind of. But when things are as they are, all we can do is keep trying… and wait for the storm to lift.
