Writing a public blog the day after admitting horrendous depression is like meeting up with friends the morning after you got drunk at the bar and screamed at someone until you cried. A tad embarrassing. Or maybe it's like you're going through a divorce and trying to joke your way through small talk at a party where everybody knows your spouse left you for a younger, better looking version. If you try for humor, it's sadder still. Were I to attempt a funny blog about how I got caught digging my shorts out of my bum whilst walking Max down what I obviously thought was an unpopulated road (I think I exposed the entire mass of my left bum cheek) you may courtesy laugh at my jokes but then you'll look at me (or the monitor) cock your head inquisitively to one side and say "but how ARE you?" "Fine." I'll respond. "No, how are you REALLY?" And then you'll touch my arm for effect. And then I'll be doubly embarrassed. I know it shouldn't feel that way, but it does.

The outlook toward taking depression medication is similar. There is still that stigma there. I feel it, even. If Lance Armstrong can win the goddamn Tour de France without steroids, I should be able to make it through life without Zoloft. Right? Kind of like, what the fuck? Quit slogging around and get over it already! Depression is so self-indulgent. A part of me feels that way toward myself. Another part of me knows it's out of my hands. If a person intelligently knows, can discern that her life is nice, loves her very sweet husband and her dog, has decent relationships with most folks - but can't bring herself to get out of bed..

Well, I don't know. I s'pose I could go jog, get those endorphins pumping, but really that does shit for the black hole of despair that grabs me by the nape of my neck, yanks my head back and spits in my face. The feeling that it's hopeless. That everyone is an asshole, even my nice husband. That my bed is the only safe place. That I should never, ever have children because I will, of course, fuck them up beyond repair. The increasing feeling that life is shit and the best you're going to feel is when you're seven, playing kick-the-can with the neighbors and don't know broke from money, bill paying, complex relationships, loneliness etc. And I'll be damned if when you're 7 you just want to be 12 so you can stay up until nine o'clock like your older brother and when you're 12 you wanna be 16 so you can drive the car away from your annoying family and when you're 16 you wanna be 18 so you can move away from your annoying family and when you're 18 you wanna be 21 so you can, like, drink until you can't see and when you're 21 you wanna be 25 so you can be out of college and in the real world already and when you're 25 you're still drinking until you can't see and suddenly you're nearly 30 and you're thinking... WHAT THE FUCK? I can't afford this bill. I can't do this. I am such a failure. I hate you! I hate me! I wish I was 7!!!!

If only to save my poor husband from me, I am going to try the Zoloft. This will be an interesting experiment anyway. I'll chronicle Zoloft: Day One.. and so forth. We'll see...together. If I'm slobbering onto the computer keys, typing shit about nothing (wait, don't I do that already?) then lemme know I'm a big fucking bore and I'll try something else. Either that or I'll go for that jog. Endorphins, you know. For all the talk I hear about endorphins, one day those little fuckers will be credited with world peace, ending hunger and curing aids. And we can all say we knew them back when..