The counting of blessings.

A day of mixed emotions: thoughts both happy and mundane. Ranging from “I should cook something nice tomorrow since it’s Valentine’s Day” to “I should remember to set out the recyclables for pickup today.”

I haven’t written much lately, and I know it’s concerned some people who are close to me. You’re right to be concerned—silence, on my part, is an indication that something isn’t wholly right with me. You’re correct to assume that if I stop writing—something I care as much about as I do that particular activity—that there’s something going on in my mind equally important.The overwhelming majority of my life has been uneventful, but punctured with moments worthy of remembrance, both pleasant and unpleasant. I fear I am verging on remembrance.

Andy waited until I said the word “depression” to him first before unleashing a torrent of all-too-familiar words to me. “You’ve been having some major mood swings lately. You’re not handling things well.” A good day (get up and do everything) followed by a bad day (not wanting to get out of bed).

My selfishness leads me to want to not chronicle this part of my life. In the end I’m a victim of the quest for perfection that I claim I don’t want to be a part of—I do not want you, reader, to see this, for fear you will think less of me for fighting and not winning. After all, where is the positivity in saying, “I’m starting to admit to myself that if things don’t get better, I need to be screened for depression?”

My own fallacies make it harder for me to admit that the frightening word starting with ‘d’ might apply to me. Because, I say, I’m functioning. I do every thing that needs to be done during the day; I manage. I smile, I laugh.

But the happy moments are quieter, not so frequent. This from someone who knows that 85% of the events of your day are influenced by how you choose to perceive them.

My perception’s badly out of whack. When the moment fades, the laughter goes, the smile melts away, and what is left is a quiet hand damping my emotions into a more muted, quieter key….and I hate every single moment of that.

When I stop to think about it I know that I have an incredibly full (and fulfilling) life. My mantra: a husband that, if asked, would do anything I asked to make me happy. Twenty-odd pounds’ worth of cats who use me as a cuddling post and secretly suspect I’m their mother. A comfortable, warm, comfortably furnished house. Expenses that don’t exceed our income. Suburbanite hobbies (knitting, a small herb garden, occasionally-spectacular cooking, rampant house decoration). Friends who value my friendship and companionship—or at least my emails.

I know that these are bleak moments. They are bearable because I know that in the end, life itself is not the sum total of those bleak moments.

But bearable does not mean easy.

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