Every time I decide I've emerged from my depression, I have One of Those Days. Those days when just getting out of bed is a major accomplishment, taking a shower seems impossible, and putting on clothes is absolutely out of the question. And yet somehow I have to do all those things and feed the kids and help them get ready and keep them from killing each other and/or burning the house down and take JJ to school and carry The Peanut everywhere and nurse her every 5 minutes because she has horrible separation anxiety and make dinner and try to keep it together until everyone's in bed.
Before I had kids, I could spend days like this in my pajamas, in bed. Shortly before and during my nervous breakdown, I spent a lot of days in my pajamas, in bed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pining for the good ol' days of burrowing under the covers and living in my fucked-up head. I think it's good for me to get out of the house and move. But some days are harder than others.
Yesterday was One of Those Days. I honestly felt I would never make it through. But somehow, I did, hopefully inflicting a minimum of emotional scarring on my children.
I wish I knew what triggered it. Maybe it was coming down from the sugar and love high of Valentine's Day, or maybe it was skipping my run that morning. Today I got up and ran three miles, and as I pounded along the sidewalk and watched the sun rise over the fog, the day seemed so much more hopeful.
I'm hoping tomorrow will be a good day, too.