5.11.2011

Throwing in the towel

I think I may be ready to throw in the towel.
Its an interesting expression...derived from managers of combatants in prize fights throwing their towel into the ring to indicate surrender...if the fight is over, they no longer need the towel.
And a fight is exactly what I have on my hands.
The battlefields are many, but the bloodiest assaults take place in two distinct combat zones: Motivation and Control.
Motivation is needed to overcome the debilitating ambivalence that rides shotgun with Depression. My default, when I'm depressed, is "I don't care." I don't care about my job, my rent or my laundry. I have the presence of mind to realize that I should care - I sometimes even take steps to make it appear to the outside world as if I do care (often in the form of brainstorming credible excuses)...but that's not quite the same thing as caring. Its more like...house-sitting Care. Keeping things kosher for some time at which I hope to care again. The Done List (http://notsobluemama.blogspot.com/2009/06/done-list.html) usually helps with this but this time - not even scratching the surface. Frankly I can't bring myself to bother.
I am losing it. Piles of laundry in the basement and nothing to wear. Rent paid 10 days late for no reason other than I just didn't get around to writing the check. Even the recent invasion of black ants barely inspired more than a half-hearted swabbing of the kitchen deck. I am amazed, frankly, that I manage to pull this shit off for as long as I do - always with that nagging compulsion in a dark corner of my mind to see it through to fruition. Get fired. Get evicted. Get a vacation at the nearest residential mental health facility. It sounds oddly...inviting. And easy. Which disgusts me, of course, and scares the living shit out of me as well. All I want to do, really, is sleep. "Pull up! Pull up!...no? Well then we'll need to stop at the state store."
Control is a bloodbath. Controlling the frequency & duration of my temper tantrums as well as my meltdowns is...exhausting. Its how I imagine it would be to live in a foreign country and have to speak a second language all the time. You can do it, but damn if it doesn't take a shit ton of effort.
I crave an effortless even keel.
So I am throwing in the towel and picking up the Zoloft once again (with a sidecar of Welbutrin, please, barkeep).
I hate that it tastes like defeat.