Rock...Meet Bottom

In Canmore over the weekend, my parents watched me cry through my birthday gifts with a certain amount of horror. For them, it was a flashback to the Bad Old Days, my flippant euphemism for a major clinical depression lasting more than two years.

I remember one Heavy D Day in particular when I met a friend for lunch and calmly informed him that it appeared I was going to cry my way through the entire meal. "Just ignore it," I said. Ignore the flood of tears streaming down my face for no discernible reason and enjoy your noodles!

And, although I assured my mother two days ago that I'm not depressed, now I'm not so sure. Because every conversation I have about what's going on in my life results in the same kind of non-stop noodle house tears from all those years ago. A person simply shouldn't be crying this much.

Drea is convinced that it is my thwarted creativity. That I am suppressing my creative genius (her words) and I'm going under as a result.

I would have to agree.

That and I seem to be making a full-time career out of people-pleasing. I'm so busy managing other people's expectations and trying to make them happy that I am completely and utterly depleted. My personal emotional bank account is in overdraft.

And now, as I fight to stay hydrated against the constant crying, I think about how unnecessary it was to let it get this far. That if I had listened, I'm sure my intuition was trying to guide me to safety all along. Unless, of course, I needed to learn this lesson in order to move on to the heights of greatness. Regardless, here we are again. At rock bottom

I've written about rock bottom before, but the gist is this: it isn't as bad as it's made out to be. It is the end of something, yes, but it's also the very clear beginning of the next thing. The point of necessary change. And a welcome rest from the horrific free-fall that brought you here.

In the past, this is the point where I usually say things like "Freelancing isn't for me" and get a day job in a stylishly decorated office with stylishly decorated people writing about stylishly decorated condominiums. This is also the point where I say "I should go back on my meds" and slurp down my daily dose of Celexa, waiting for chemically-induced bliss to set in in 4 to 6 days. This is also usually the point at which I suck the life and soul out of my romantic partner like some crazed vampire zombie girl, leaving his flaccid, emptied carcass in the wake of my murderous despair.

Or something like that.

So, if only for the sake of variety, I'd like to play the scene a little differently this time.