Depression is rarely boring, despite what one might expect. I woke up Sunday morning (having slept in while Carole went off to church) with a full-on the-world-is-ending I-am-utterly-alone panic attack. I literally felt as though I was drowning, gasping for breath, my heart pounding in my chest like a jackhammer. Carole came home in the middle of it and had absolutely no idea what to do. I begged her to listen to me … I don’t know what I wanted to say… but I think I just freaked her out instead.
I made it to Chicago for this week’s work, having pulled myself together enough to make it past the TSA and onto my Burlington to O’Hare flight. I made it to the customer today, a half hour late, because it was almost impossible to get out of bed. I survived work today, but was certainly not my most productive. And now I’m sitting in my hotel room looking out on a lovely sunny evening, and all I can think is, how absolutely miserable I feel.
Biochemistry sucks sometimes.