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It's my responsibility to look after my own happiness. I can't have my happiness depend on the presence of specific other people and be healthy; nor can it depend on specific other things that are outside my control.
Other people can make it easier for me to be happy -- content, I think is the word I want; happiness is not neutral for me. Or can improve the quality of what "content" means. Or can provide me with other routes to other things through their presence in my life (riffing off the "I want you in my life as a partner because I like who you make it possible for me to be" notion).
The problem comes that I'm not all that consistently good at seeking or finding contentment or happiness on my own, for reasons that are not in my control.
This is the first serious emotional downturn I've had since I started supplementing my vitamins; it feels different in quality from others I can remember, but I'm not sure if that's related to where it fell in my hormone cycle. (And I don't remember depressions very well for comparison purposes; the stuff that my memories hang off doesn't really exist consistently in a dip.) I'm not even getting my seasonal-affective stuff since the vitamins -- I'm not doing fourteen to sixteen hour sleeps by preference. The current depression has me up to ten or eleven sleeps before I get frustrated and just get up. Big difference the pills make there.
But when I'm up, it's hard for me to get my hands on something and do it. And I know that if I can go and get something done, odds are pretty good that that will shift my moods significantly. But things slip between my fingers -- the working on the database for my current massive multidimensional Tetris issue went off into a marvelling at a recipe that requires a half cup of whole cloves. I need to get the laundry I did two days ago out of the dryer.
Knowing that it would help doesn't actually make it easier to do it; it just reinforces my damagedness at being incapable. Thus the depression perpetuates. Getting bizarre spasms in my internal lower abdominal muscles gives me the freaking weird-outs to go with.
Gonna go get the damn laundry now. And maybe paint the wall some more if I don't crack my head on the ceiling lamp again. And see if that helps . . . or if it slips out of my hands again. (Sifting sand through my fingers . . . looking for some trace of you. . .)
Other people can make it easier for me to be happy -- content, I think is the word I want; happiness is not neutral for me. Or can improve the quality of what "content" means. Or can provide me with other routes to other things through their presence in my life (riffing off the "I want you in my life as a partner because I like who you make it possible for me to be" notion).
The problem comes that I'm not all that consistently good at seeking or finding contentment or happiness on my own, for reasons that are not in my control.
This is the first serious emotional downturn I've had since I started supplementing my vitamins; it feels different in quality from others I can remember, but I'm not sure if that's related to where it fell in my hormone cycle. (And I don't remember depressions very well for comparison purposes; the stuff that my memories hang off doesn't really exist consistently in a dip.) I'm not even getting my seasonal-affective stuff since the vitamins -- I'm not doing fourteen to sixteen hour sleeps by preference. The current depression has me up to ten or eleven sleeps before I get frustrated and just get up. Big difference the pills make there.
But when I'm up, it's hard for me to get my hands on something and do it. And I know that if I can go and get something done, odds are pretty good that that will shift my moods significantly. But things slip between my fingers -- the working on the database for my current massive multidimensional Tetris issue went off into a marvelling at a recipe that requires a half cup of whole cloves. I need to get the laundry I did two days ago out of the dryer.
Knowing that it would help doesn't actually make it easier to do it; it just reinforces my damagedness at being incapable. Thus the depression perpetuates. Getting bizarre spasms in my internal lower abdominal muscles gives me the freaking weird-outs to go with.
Gonna go get the damn laundry now. And maybe paint the wall some more if I don't crack my head on the ceiling lamp again. And see if that helps . . . or if it slips out of my hands again. (Sifting sand through my fingers . . . looking for some trace of you. . .)
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