Dear Depression, you bastard,

Well, I’ve been a long time gone.

I thought I’d crawled out of the pit of despair, but my depression still has its claws in me. Why is it so hard to see it when it’s happening? So hard to put a name to it as I slide down that slippery slope into the pit? It wasn’t until I was curled up in bed, taking Xanax so I could breathe without twitching, that I realized I might have a problem.

And here’s my conundrum: last month, my pain management doc upped my Lexapro — by 50 mg — to deal with this. It worked for less than two weeks, and then I crashed again. Once I finally figured out what was going on, yesterday, I started taking an extra 100 mg. So how much can I take? When do we decide it’s just a band-aid, and realize that band-aid keeps coming off?

I’ve got a pain management appointment on Wednesday. I really need to go in and spill all. I need to tell the nurse person (Jill) who refills my prescriptions that I’m in a bad place. A bad, bad place.

I didn’t take a bath for two weeks. I was hit-or-miss with brushing my teeth. My hair was in a ratty ponytail that occasionally got fixed. I have six loads of laundry that need to be done. I’ve run out of underpants, and I bought a ton so I’d never run out. I didn’t walk the dog (We have a yard, but … ), and let others feed and medicate him. I laid on the couch and read books that would make me teary.

I know I need to tell Jill what’s going on, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get the words out of my mouth. I have serious issues about asking for help, about admitting weakness and failure.

I need to, though.

I’m not suicidal, but over the last few weeks, I just stopped taking care of me. I just stopped caring.

I hate feeling like this. It’s the most horrible feeling. I’d rather deal with the migraine pain at its worst than this. Sadly, I didn’t get a vote.

More updates from the pit later. Until then, I remain

Payne.