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Not suprisingly, getting divorced is kind of a bummer. Add to that my failed attempt to find work in California over the summer, and it’s no wonder that the sadness I’ve been feeling has recently turned into full-blown depression.
It took me a couple of weeks to face facts, however. I’m stubborn that way! I kept thinking that if I got enough sleep and I ran enough miles, I could cure myself. But it turns out that no matter how many hours I lie in bed and no matter how much road I tear up with my running shoes, the world and all of its problems still exists.
Last week I went for a consultation and ended up getting a prescription for an anti-depressant. Although I’d taken this drug many years ago, my doctor wanted to err on the side of caution. I’m starting with a very low dose, and then I have to monitor for side effects. “Things like headache, nausea, vomiting” she said, cheerfully. “It should only take a month or six weeks to find out if this works.”
I’m going to get real. I walked out of her office and I bought a box of cookies and I ate it when I got home. I’m sorry, but when you’re depressed, it’s hard to hear that you need to wait 30 days before things will get better.
Sure, I know that a cookie cures nothing. And yes, I know that eating an entire box of cookies is –in the end– more of destructive behavior than a constructive behavior. But sometimes old patterns embedded deep within our psyches just take over. And ever since I was a tiny tot, sadness meant cheering myself up with food.
I’ll work on this depression thing, and in the end I’ll kick it. And when I get on the scale for my weekly weigh-in tomorrow, there won’t be any suprises. Or judgments.
But I’m going to try really hard not to buy any more boxes of cookies.