I start with an apology for anyone who had been awaiting my next post, as I was unable to provide one when planned. The reason for that is that I couldn’t bring self to find the funny side of much going on in my life and this blog would be a significant downer if I just posted about this shit show with a straight slant. I’d likely be a causal factor in someone’s depressive disorder taking a negative turn. There would be liability issues. It would be a whole ‘thing’.

Unfortunately I am still struggling to find much to laugh at right now. I am however feeling more able to fake it. Just ask my boss at work who sees me in meetings with puffy red eyes and lets my clearly fake smile give him an out from showing any level of concern. Anyhooo…maybe I should go with my current mood and see where it takes me. Lets turn an examining eye to the signs of mental ill health.

For me the first sign is a significant dip in personal hygiene. I know, very attractive. Thankfully I havent been known to exude a particularly offensive odour, so the only person who will notice this preliminary lapse is myself, and I am used to it. Of course the lack of a change of clothes for several days is pretty gross and obvious, but given I also stop leaving the house, it is once again only a matter of my own private shame, and I am usually too distracted to feel much of that.

What finally gets me back into the routine of basic hygiene is my hair. Day three post shower is not the best phase for my hair. Lanky and tangled, I make a half hearted attempt to put it back if anyone dares visit or lest i be forced to walk out my front door. I have to be careful not to let this go on for too long, as I have noticed during particularly bad, extended periods of depressive negelct that eventually my hair leans in, stops appearing greasy and starts looking as though it is adjusting to a new life without chemicals stripping and replenishing it, finding a new, natural balance. Much like a dehydrated desert dweller, my oasis of natural, oil-free beauty is just a mirage and my hair really does need some attention.

The next phase is that my face forgets what expressions are and my emotions go on the lam. Eventually if the depressive period of significant enough, my brain decides we need some time apart to reevaluate our relationship. To do this it performs a special trick. Dissociation. In my case the sense that I have ceased to exist. When I speak it feels as though I am listening to someone else and in doing that gives me the impression that the angst Im expressing is actually someone else’s and not mine, because Im not here, or there, or anywhere for that matter. I am told this is my brains way of protecting me from overload. My temporarily enlarged amygdala and shrunken areas of my frontal lobe make complex emotions and higher order cognitive skills difficult to manage. The casual observer wouldnt know of my inner turmoil, which is fine by me because my brain doesnt either.

I have spent my days recently rewatching familiar shows (my brain is currently unable to cope well with new information), playing inane games on my ipad and testing the limits of my dermatillomania (which I will do everyone the favour of not explaining – google at your own risk). I shy away from basic activities such as going to a shop, or taking a walk around the block. I fear the judging eyes of those around me, while paradoxically aware that most people out in the world couldnt care less about how I look, speak or act. I treat phone calls and visitors as though I am avoiding the worlds most persistent debt collectors, displaying acts of avoidance that would make a toreador swoon (and hopefully be gored when they did so). Its not exactly an engaging or exciting existence.

One thing this week did make me laugh out loud for a significant length of time; my older son’s request for a ‘friend’ to spend the night. He framed it in a way that left too many questions unanswered and eventually led to his disclosure of a planned tinder-style hook-up. Notwithstanding the fact that my child’s sex life is streets ahead of my own, new issues of appropriate etiquette arose. Do I greet said friend? Do I avoid the common areas of the house until the deed is done and if so, how would I know, do we need a secret knock or code word?? More importantly, does this mean I need to wash my hair and change out of the clothes I slept in???? This was definitely a part of parenting no one ever warned me about and Im not finding a lot of parenting books that cover this topic either. Distractions from poor mental health abound.