My funk is still there. No - Right here wrapped around me like an old sweater that really should have been thrown away a long time ago.
Last night my husband asked me if I was okay. He said I didn't even seem like I was here. Is it time to find someone to talk to?
Wow. How's that for a wake up call?
Here I was thinking I was the Stealth Bomber - doing a good job of hiding the fact that maybe I was dealing with a pesky little bit of depression. Guess not.
The forced smile I put on for the sake of the boys isn't fair. To them or to me. I'm finding there are a lot of contributing factors - I'm finally beginning to name them. The stink of this funk has gotten too ripe and it's time to send it down the drain with the dirty bathwater.
The track always leads back to the same place: Despite several go 'rounds to convince myself otherwise, I dragged my ass out of bed at 5:00 this morning and got on the treadmill. Recent attempts at getting back in to a routine have been tough to keep up. (Damn Christmas cookies!)
I know I am better when I'm exercising. I know this. It really is amazing how a measly 30 minutes can clear the cobwebs and point your day in an entirely different direction.
And as far as finding someone to talk to? Well sorry, I hope you don't mind, but for now you're it.
It's time to refocus on what makes me happy and to find a way to quiet the sulking, sad, "boo-hoo for me" little girl who has forgotten how to take care of herself. Perhaps the longer days might help a bit too.
"Shit a cat's ass it's good to see the sun again." - from Judevine by David Budbill
Gotta get the glitter back. It's time.