First off, in defiance of my title, I’d like to share that I’ve officially said goodbye to the 250s. Standing on the scale, seeing 249, felt pretty good, but also a bit deja vuey. Because I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve achieved that particular milestone. More than 3. Less than 10. But this is the last time. It’s a 3 pound loss and I’m happy, but mostly just girding my loins for the next 7 and making a lot of internal vows that this is absolutely the end.
Anyway. On with what I meant to say.
I’m coming out of a rather lengthy bout with depression. It’s been a weird cycle, not low enough to incapacitate me, but longer than my usual week or so. As always, when I emerge, blinking and stretching from the winter of my discontent, I have a heightened appreciation for my life and the individuals that make it so special. My beautiful children. My devastatingly sexy husband. My talented and lovely friends.
I’m blessed beyond words, chickens.
I’m laughing more and taking true joy in music, art and television. (If only Netflix would add some more Dr. Who. *sigh*) I’m writing and exercising and gardening. I have that particular restlessness that accompanies the planning of a trip. And so making wise choices with my food is easier.
That’s what all of this verbosity is about, you know. When everything is grand, I don’t need the excess. Sure, I want it. But I don’t need it like I do when the world is gray. But then here is the question; how to hold on to this, against the inevitable tide of sadness? I have a theory that the act of committing this feeling to a page, be it digital or paper, is the answer. Taking pictures. Creating memories for myself, mental places to revisit when it seems only several pastries will dull the edge of anger and despair.
Because they don’t. They never do. In fact, they make it worse. Those assholes always invite self-loathing to the pity party. Ugh. I truly hate uninvited guests.
I wish there were a way to bottle the laughter that happens when my normally proper and dignified friend ruefully shakes her head and says, “Oh, Matthew McConaughey. You sexy bastard.” Or when my normally improper friend buys blood spattered zombie sheets off of Etsy. The joy in my children’s eyes when we discover something together. My husband’s sigh when he falls asleep. Those would be the best sort of diet pills.