I know that I am depressed. And no, I’m not being mellow-dramatic … I just am. I have little motivation to do anything. I sleep like shit. I have a hard time mustering the energy to do things that I usually enjoy. I drink a little too much; I eat way too much. I can’t convince myself to walk or hike, much less exercise. I’m lonely. My PHQ-9 score is 15, which according to one website means: “moderately severe depression; patients typically should have immediate initiation of pharmacotherapy and/or psychotherapy.”
Been there. Done that.
I’m not worried. I’ll get better. It seems that I always do. Besides, I’ve been much, much worse.
This too shall pass.
. . . .
I laid on the air mattress this morning for 2 hours before Christine’s alarm sounded; it was finally an acceptable time for me to rise, put my air-bed against the wall, and begin another day of mostly sitting in my office staring at a computer monitor consuming shit I really don’t care about.
I was sitting at the PC when she came in. She walked behind me, gently rubbed my hair, kissed the top of my head, and said, “Good morning.” My eyes welled up; It had been 2 months since I felt her touch. Five minutes later she would ask if we should “return to normal”.
We talked for little and then she went for a run. We’ll talk more about it later.
It was just a gentle touch on the head, but it felt like so much more and it made me feel much better than a Prozac could.