I'm calling it out, and I'm calling it now. Once it's done, things get better.
Depression.
Really, I shouldn't be surprised. It's July - and whether it be the weather, or the time of year, or the lack of sunshine or the fact that the sun is in Cancer, I've got my annual case of the seasonal sads.
It is okay. That's the first thing. I'm functioning. I'm eating, drinking, looking after the cat, going to work - it's just a lot of this is a struggle.
Looking at this from the inside out, it's like somebody's put some veils over my face and everything is tinted in grey. Food tastes a bit like cardboard. Colours aren't as bright. My tolerance for noise, already pretty low, is diminished. My patience is stretched.
It is what it is.
The realisation came last night when I was out to the theatre. And yes, at the moment, going out to the theatre feels like it's an extreme act as you don't know who has what disease in the room, when this is one of your favourite things to do and all you want to do is escape, you know something is not right.
Dinner at one of my favourite dumpling bars wasn't cutting it for me - though a good feed of chilli wantons did help a bit. Once inside the theatre, the overwhelming feeling of dread came over me. It was a struggle to get to my seat. Once in the seat, it felt claustrophobic. Having to wear a mask through the performance - a practice I don't normally mind and frankly agree with, was stifling in the heat of the auditorium. My dodgy hip seized up causing a sciatic flare up, sending my quads into spasm. Hamilton, a show I love, was wrecked - though I enjoyed what I saw through the pain in my leg, the claustrophobic feeling, the overwhelming heat, the need to breath freely and the sense of pending doom.
I gave my apologies and left at interval.
It took some time to normalise. My new scarf, the one I'm so proud of, remained in my handbag - the cool night air needed to come in contact with my throat.
At home, I curled up on the couch, a hot water bottle on my lower back, a hot chocolate in hand and my chest stopped pounding.
That I only get the minor morbs as I like to refer to them, is a godsend. That I know how to sort them out is a wonder. That I'm not clinical or medicated - I'm truly grateful.
It's a matter of calling it out early and dealing with it quickly.
This weekend is a busy one - and I'm pushing through, rather than retreating. Thankfully, it's a contained weekend. The haircut and colour with brighten me up. Christmas in July should be lovely - there's only four of us going. I can take my hot water bag to keep on my errant glute and nobody will think the worse of me. Good food will do me good. If I'm honest, when I feel like this, I only want to eat McDonalds - and we all know how bad that makes you feel when you're already in a rut.
Tomorrow's trip to Bendigo is still going ahead. Some country air will do me the world of good.
And going forward I'll be doing everything in my power to break this cycle. I've got the tools down. Good clean food, lots of exercise, no alcohol, lots of sleep. And maube a bit of Jane Austen, Jane Austen helps a lot. And doing the things that make you feel good. Little things like making the bed in the morning. Even writing these daily blog posts help.
Time and care and calling it out. I'm doing this. It's the first stop back to normality.
This too shall pass.
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