It's a beautiful, sunny day outside, but I feel as if the darkness of my soul is eating away at me.
I've been struggling with this...problem for a number of years [if I count the eight or so years it went undiagnosed, it's been 17 years], and I have bouts of self-loathing that can run the gambit from mild displeasure to an all-out war with myself. I'm not feeling particularly self-destructive, so I'll weather through this and continue with my life unabated (for now, anyway).
I never like it when my husband figures out I've slipped under the crushing waves again...and knowing my fear of water, he would really detest that analogy. He always feels a little defeated that he can't "make me happy"; he's frustrated that he can't cheer me up easily & that I'm usually am angry or unhappy when these moods come. I wish there was something I could tell him to get him to understand that he hasn't failed me just because he can't cheer up 'a woman depressed'.
So what pushed me over the edge to the point where I wanted to blog about it? Buying a full-length mirror.
Coupled with issues about childbearing (or inability to do so) discussed at length in my ebloggy blog, and a overwhelming feeling that I've completely stagnated in life with no clear hope in site (for the moment), the body image thing was just the ticket to send a weary mind to a place that is all-too familiar.
To quote Squee, a character from the Johnny the Homicidal Maniac comic series: "The sick thing is, I'm...use to it".
Hopefully, I'll feel better after some sleep, PhD inquiry research, and happier music on my Sansa mp3 player. But this is nothing to worry about.
I've been down this road before, and I always seem to come back out at the end.
Damn my candor.