I don’t feel good. I have a headache that starts somewhere between my shoulderblades and comes up over my head to rest between my eyebrows and circle around my jaw. I feel a million things to do (should have done already) lurking at the base of my skull, waiting for me to remember and be shocked. But I’m unshocked right now: I’m looking down at the floor and saying: “yes, I know, I forgot, I’m sorry. I’ll get on that.” But I don’t really want to “get on that” either. I want to go back to bed. I want to watch TV until my brain rots. I want to get on my bike and head out and not come back.
Temporary, right? Being un-good is just a temporary thing. Doesn’t feel that way, not in the least.
And I’m writing this here, out on the tightrope of public space, out of a weird sense of obligation: being a good blogger, a good writer, a good representative of the Black Dog club. I know if I write this, exactly what I feel in this sore sour ungood moment, that somebody or another is going to say something with the intent of helping me to feel better or less alone or whatever, and the bad side of me wants to tell them, whoever, to just go to hell.
Which doesn’t seem very good either.
So much pent up bad feeling, and every damn thing gets on my nerves.
I read a book recently on depression on motherhood (no, I’m not planning anything), and there was a side note about bursts of anger. The typical picture of depression doesn’t allow for that sort of thing, but it appears all in the scientific literature, or so the book said. And I feel that evil mood on me right now.
So, yeah. Come back later, when the good Elaine is out and about. She’s not here right now.