Lately my depression has been manifesting itself as a restless boredom. When I'm at home, I walk from room to room without purpose. I usually end up hunched over in my office chair staring at my computer monitor, hoping that something I read will change things, will enliven me, will save me. Frustratingly, I know that hidden somewhere in this behavior is a hint of the person I want to be, a woman with engaging work. Who are all these people who occupy coffee shops with laptops and cell phones? When did I miss the entrance ramp to that life? Mindlessly, I type in the addresses of news and gossip sites and read.
Soon enough I wander into my bedroom and lie face down across the width of the bed so I can look out the window into my backyard. My feet and part of my legs hang over the side of the mattress and my back complains, but sometimes I see a hummingbird come to the feeder I have set up near the window. I lie there until the pain in my lower back is too much and then stand, stretch and walk over to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator door, take a swig of orange Gatorade. That's good, but now what? I have a small house; there's nowhere else to go, really. I stand in the room that doubles as living and dining and decide.
Maybe I start all over again, or maybe after a surge of enthusiasm that I have to run and leap after like a train I am about to miss, I take my Golden Retriever Patrick for a walk and then come home and make dinner. Other days I call Patrick to the bedroom, take something to help me sleep (this pill popping drives me to self-loathing), and aim for oblivion, hoping that tomorrow I will know what to do.
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