Getting there.

All this week has been really hard. The week started rough, with me lying in bed in the early hours of Sunday morning, heart palpitating out of my chest. The week itself was only moderately lousy, but I felt as if it had been much worse. The depression that I’ve been trying to dispell by pretending it doesn’t exist came crashing down on my head and I was so in it I didn’t notice until B commented and said he was worried. I tried to snap myself out of it, but to no avail. I guess this isn’t that kind of funk.

Not to mention that my hormones have been crazy. But I’ll spare you the gory details.

You can always tell that it’s a rough week when my house is a wreck, which it is. (To those friends who were here last night, who might not think so, did you notice how dark the house was last night? Yeah, that was strategic.) When I’m down, things that are ordinarily very important to me start to exhaust me. 

Last night, after guests had gone home (Friday night is pizza and Project Runway at our place), I was lying on the couch, about to fall asleep, but feeling too tired to put fresh linens on the bed. B got up to do it for me, and after a while, I noticed it was taking him a lot longer than it should have. I walked into the bedroom to find that he had made the bed nicely, started my electric blanket, filled my hot water bottle and tidied up all the mess in the room—95% of which was mine. I curled up with my book and felt more right with the world than I have in over a week. Sometimes you really just need to be tucked into bed. 

I woke up this morning and it was actually sunny outside. When I can get out of bed, which, admittedly, could take a long time, I think it’s going to be a good day.