The problem with choosing a non-medicinal form of therapy for depression is that it is far too easy to get derailed when injured and much more difficult to force myself back into a routine that I know is good for me, especially when the derailment is followed with enough stress to push me back into a downward spiral.
Hobbled (literally, I could barely walk for several days) two weeks ago after a 20 mile bike ride by a massive, multi-day muscle spasm that pushed on the sciatic nerve, I was forced to stop exercising, pop ibuprofen and pray for relief from the pain. One of our friends, a licensed, non-practicing PT, was kind enough to run an ultrasound on the affected muscle, which bought me much needed relief and a very good, albeit embarrassing story, to share within our circle of acquaintances.
My self-esteem has taken a small beating as a potential job dematerialized after three intensive interviews. Asked to submit a technical writing sample “with some length” I spent part of my weekend holiday and late into the wee hours of Sunday crafting a sample that was non-proprietary. I received an email Monday morning that the potential employer would contact me shortly to set up a final interview – then nothing. Apparently my carefully crafted sample was a resounding disaster.
Normally I would not think too much of it. But emotionally vulnerable, weary of the various layers of crap at my current place of employment and simple physical tiredness have taken its toll on my psyche. Mysteriously vague emails from J were not reassuring. I returned home cranky and moody to discover J experiencing the same level of negativity as myself, without the spectator of depression hanging over his head.
It has been quiet for too long, which is the only reason I can come up with for J's father calling him before eight AM to complain that I had not yet send a thank-you note for my birthday gifts or for my in-laws attendance at the non-birthday party, held on my birthday, at my parents home ten days ago.
The party which was held in honor of my twin brother making it halfway through his second tour in the service of Operation-Whatever-the-Hell-the-Shrub-is-Calling-it-Now. My mother deliberately withheld the information that it was our birthday from the guests. Some knew, most did not. One friend, upon learning that it was our birthday, asked my mother why she had not mentioned it.
In turn, my mother chastised me for “asking for gifts” and said that I was too old to be behaving like that. As all I had done was tell the friend that I had spent the prior day celebrating early with J and some close friends, I found the conversation a tad bewildering. Later that evening she also told me that my shorts were ugly.
And she wonders why I don't come home much.
As I had not wanted anything to do with the party and only changed plans to make my parents happy, J knew that this complaint would make me irate. His attempt to withhold information about the conversation from me was an admirable, but unachievable goal when both of us are equally at odds with the universe. After venting my displeasure and suggesting that J's father needed to have his head examined* I pulled out the cards (as I had intended to write notes to everyone that week) and wrote out a thank you.
I realized after I sealed the envelope that I forgot to mention one of the gifts. No doubt he will be happy to have the additional ammunition in his next round of complaints about me.
Is it ironic that a thank you note from one of J's second cousins, for the graduation gift we gave to her four weeks ago, was in the mail today?
On the upside I spent this past weekend in Chicago. Photographs will be forthcoming (defined as whenever I get around to gathering all the equipment necessary to download the photos to my laptop). My first trip, ever, to such a lovely, lively city and I had a lovely tour guide, in the guise of Lisa and her friend Glenn, to show me around.
Friday I took trip to the Art Institute of Chicago to view its beautiful (temporarily limited) collection of Impressionists paintings. I sat in front of Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte and listened to my thoughts bounce from the song Sunday in the Park with George to The Simpson's infamous interpretation of the same painting. I wandered through the other galleries to take some photographs.
I met up with Lisa and Glenn (at the Bean, natch) for dinner at Taste of Chicago and some blues. Saturday was some work in the morning for the failed job application, a trip to Shaler's for lunch, then off to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cubs.** More fighting the mob at Taste of Chicago (I blame Stevie Wonder) for dinner and the sounds of the Orchestra Baobab at the pavilion.
Sunday was sleep, more writing, a plane ride home and the aforementioned late night.
*In all seriousness. He had a stroke last year and has gone from friendly control freak to petty and mean spirited.
**First time in recent memory that I actually saw a competitive baseball game.
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