The bitten nails are always the first sign. Even before I realize there's a problem, I resort to my childhood vice. Mister mrtl notices, asks, and I insist that there's nothing wrong. I believe it, than am always surprised when it all hits. Denial.
This started well before Mary's visit at the beginning of May. I remember feeling overwhelmed as her visit approached, not because she is exhausting to be around -- she's absolutely lovely, -- but because it would mean that I'd be on stage for so long. Keeping it together for so many days, without mister mrtl since he was visiting his father in Wisconsin, put me in a panic. She was staying in the playroom, where the computer resides. How would I decompress?
The nails hardly survived that week.
Fortunately I thought to cut back my hours that week, planning to do some touristy stuff with her. I didn't know until well into the week that she felt uncomfortable driving other peoples' cars. We had a great time putzing around, but I felt bad that she missed out on doing some things because I wasn't willing to travel too far away from Anchorage (where Bug is in daycare) and because I didn't want to subject Jem to too long in the van at a time. Mary decided before she left that she will come back next year. Next year's visit will be much better planned.
There seem to be so many things triggering me right now. I can't put my finger on what my issue is, just that I don't seem to be a part of the equation anymore. When I have had time to myself, I've avoided going online. Not reading. Not writing. Not thinking... about me at least. Focusing on inconsequential things, most recently the drama surrounding Star Jones' departure from "The View." Like I care. Having two little ones also makes it very easy to ignore myself. I throw myself into their care, putting their needs first. Service with a smile. A recent visit from my parents provided yet another distraction.
I'd like to say that I've taken all this time away to figure things out. What the funk? I'm hesitant to say it's depression. I'm still getting up every morning. I'm getting work done, as well as the bare essentials around the house. It's nothing like last year when I was an emotional mess, lashing out. Now I've withdrawn. I'm not being a bitch to my husband, but he's worried that I seem so sad. I don't feel sad, though. I don't feel much at all... besides disconnected.
What I do know, and what is most exacerbating about all of this, is that I feel completely powerless in helping myself. I've tried medication before and couldn't stand how it made me feel. I went in incredibly stressed out because I was so unproductive and unable to focus on work. I came out not caring at all about being unproductive and unable to focus on work with a side of paranoia, knowing that I had things that I had to get done. I stopped taking the meds not just because of that, but also because we were preparing for Jem's conception; those meds were not recommended during pregnancy or breastfeeding. I'm breastfeeding now. Therapy? Meh. Forced to focus on myself when it's the last thing I want to do? Yeah, that's sure to make me perkier.
I could go on, but it's bedtime. Hopefully this post will get me thinking. Thinking is good.