Well, I have settled on my excuse for not writing more lately: I was in the throes of a major depressive episode that I didn't know I was having. Or maybe I talked myself out of thinking I was having it. Because October is always bad, so obviously that was just October. And November, I was getting over October. Then the holidays are always rough, and December is a hectic mess. Then January is for getting over the holidays, so of course I was low, and also, my husband is a huge jerk. It all seemed so rational.
When I finally did figure out that I was too low, I had my reasons, and I just thought it was a slight overreaction to serious provocation. I had a prescheduled check-up with my doctor, and she put me on some Wellbutrin to boost my normal stuff, and I figured it would help a bit. I was really low by this point, crying every night before I went to bed and every morning when I got up, because, you know, I had grievances. Then a few days later, I completely lost my mind. I told Husband that I couldn't remember why I ever thought he'd loved me. I spent the next day in an impenetrable fog, working 8 hours that I mostly don't remember, so low that my coworker could hear it over the phone, so tired that I had trouble moving my body and I kept dropping things and knocking them over because I just couldn't function.
Then the next day, I woke up. I rolled over. I was...fine. Just fine. Not *All better!* Not suddenly happy, just fine. As the day went on, the horror of what I had said to my husband started to dawn on me. I still took issue with some things (we live together, this is inevitable), but none of them seemed to matter as much. Then the next day, I woke up and I was fine again, and he was still there. I told him that I ever said something like that again, he could site this incident as proof that he loved me. I said awful, horrible things to him, but he just sort of waited it out. He was still here when I came back.
I mean, I know he married me and whatever, but seriously.
