A rush of pure fury

First read this post.

I used to just be sad in the morning, and after 11am I was okay. But in the last two weeks that okay period has been pushed back to 2pm and then to 5pm and now I am not ever okay. My nights are just as bad as my mornings. There isn’t a moment in the day that I look forward to. I don’t see an end to this cycle of stress, and I find myself asking much too often, “Why go on?”

Yesterday I saw a psychiatrist who prescribed me a combination of drugs. I wish that there were other ways that I could go about getting better, but you have to believe me when I say that this is way beyond herbal remedies or dietary changes. I exercise all the time and I have a very healthy diet (except for the pop tarts, but people, a woman needs her pop tarts). This situation is life-threatening. I am afraid of hurting myself. [...]

But there is one terrible drawback to this step I am taking toward sanity. The doctor told me that I have to wean Leta if I want to work up to therapeutic levels of these drugs. I have to stop breastfeeding in the next month.

Then read this response.

(no subject)

I like going to the gym on my way to work.

It's a brisk 15-minute walk from my house to the gym. At 8am, the streets have not yet begun to bake and the midday haze of air pollution has not yet settled over the city. I exchange smiles and "good mornings" with the few people I pass on the street - a young man polishing the brass pillars that hold up a business's awning, an elderly priest stumping across Cathedral Street with his cane. By the time I get to the gym, my muscles are warmed up and loose - I can skip the usual ten minutes on the exercise bike.

Before-work exercisers mostly clear out by 8, and the daytime crowd (students and retirees) generally hasn't shown up yet. I like the privacy, the absence of chatter, the assurance of knowing that no one is watching me and secretly laughing at how little I can lift. The pop music they play through the sound system is easy for me to tune out, so my world shrinks to include just me and my exercises.

There's something soothing and meditative about lifting weights. I like the building strain followed by release, the warm glow of endorphins. I like narrowing my focus down to a particular set of muscle movements, concentrating only on perfecting my form, visualizing the proper muscles contracting and expanding. I like being aware of my body and how it moves. I like the sense of accomplishment that comes from filling in the little boxes on my exercise sheet: look what I've gotten done.

Right now I'm trying to fend off a mild depression via lifestyle adjustments: exercise, mindfulness, religious practice, rest, not ODing on sugar. This morning, it seems to be working.