Why I Don't Tweet Demi Moore, and Other Tales of Holiday Depression

Demi Moore, Patron Saint of Suicidal Tweeters, is not my friend on Twitter. Not because I'm still mad at her for marrying my future next husband, and I don't mean Bruce. Seriously though, good for her averting yet another Suicide by Tweet. Though I can't imagine why anyone in their right mind would turn to her for help in the depths of depression (though I suppose "in their right mind" is the operative phrase), I suppose it's good she was online at the time. ~shrug~

My Easter weekend - the greatest holiday of my faith - has been a total bust due to my depression/anxiety rearing it's hideous head yet again. Note to Depressives Everywhere: do NOT switch meds close to a holiday where you're expected to don cute new Springtime clothes, act all giddy at chocolate eggs, and basically act like everything is just peachy keen. Trust me, it doesn't work well, despite your therapist's insistence that you'll be "normal again" in a week or so.

I don't even know what normal is - I never have. That's all I want is "normal", but after 41 years of looking for it, I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't want me to find it. Kind of like all those Easter eggs that will lay hidden until someone mows the yard again and ends up with a million peices of plastic all over their yard and melted chocolate all over their lawn mower.

After not eating for 2 days, and lying in bed under the covers on the prettiest day of the year (from 2pm yesterday until 9am this morning) - I've decided that I'm just sick of this mask. No, it's not Halloween, but I wear one year-round. It's the mask of the Happy Face, which I am usually able to wear pretty convincingly.

My husband, bless his heart, knows about the mask - and now, thanks to Therese Borchard he understands the "little man" in my head. But he still has trouble with my wanting to take the mask off sometimes. He doesn't understand that it's darn near impossible for me to put it on and face the world sometimes. Like this morning, and yesterday, "Just get up, you'll feel better." he says. But he can't - and no one who has not struggled with depression can - possibly understand the sheer agony it causes to "just get up" at times like this. Simply walking into the next room can be excruciatingly exhausting. Add to that going out in public, putting on the Mask, and pretending to be the normal mom, wife, friend that you're expected to be - it's impossible sometimes.

So today, I won't Tweet Demi Moore (though I'm sure she'd have some great new-agey advice to offer, and a nice visit from the local men in white coats while she's at it). I'll put the Mask on for an hour or so since I have to visit my mom & family for Easter lunch, then I'll take it off - leave it off, maybe manage to sit outside in the sun with a glass of something cold and non-alcoholic (I don't drink). I'll try to quiet the little man in my head that's telling me constantly that I'm worthless, useless, fat, ugly, fake, doomed, hated, a charity case that people are only nice to because they have to be, that I'm a horrible wife/mother/friend/sister/daughter/granddaughter/aunt and everything else I'm supposed to do right. I won't use the perfect excuse "I miscarried on Easter weekend 18 years ago" which would explain it all away and people would accept my mood if I told them - they'd probably even be really nice to me all day if I told them. But I don't want people to be nice to me today. I don't want to have to have an excuse to be this way. Because there is no excuse. That's why depression sucks so horribly. Because we never know WHY we're cursed with this disease.