I haven't written in a while. I suppose it's because I don't have much to say. Well, not much that hasn't already been said, ad nauseum, anyway. I'd love to say that my life was taking on great twists and turns and changes for the better but, because I'm honest, perhaps to a fault, I cannot. The fact is, nothing has changed except that I feel like I'm in the worst place, mentally, that I've been in for months. Not an unfamiliar place, I assure you, but one that I was hoping not to revisit again so soon or, frankly, at all. I truly believe that my depression is hard-wired into my brain and I am not naive enough to believe that it can ever be "cured". Is there treatment available? Surely. But is it available to me, once again without health insurance? Most certainly not.
You're probably all sick of the "woe is me" trials and tribulations of poor Kari. Believe me, no one is more sick of it than I. But the fact remains, I feel quite powerless over most of the situations in my life. My husband often gives me this example of my "inappropriate" reactions to things. Whether I stub my toe or break my leg, my stress-level is, on a scale of one to ten, an eleven. I can't argue that, it is the truth. Why I react that way is the question. Seemingly small, almost insignificant slights become exponentially greater than they should be, automatically. My mind has never worked "properly" and I don't think it ever will. Sure, I'm not going to lie, meds would help. Therapy? Absolutely! Alas, for the present time, I must fight this battle within my own mind alone. This is not to say that I don't have a loving supportive husband. Believe me, I am grateful for him every day of my life. I have some fan-fucking-tastic friends which sets me far above many others, I'm certain. Everything is not misery, though many times, it feels that way. But overall, without fail, I am miserable and I'm really fucking sick of it.
I know no one can solve the problem that is me, least of all, me. I don't expect you to. I guess what I hope, above all else, is that people, even just a few, can understand that I am not this way by choice. I would give everything to have a clean slate, to have been born with a mind and a heart not clouded by depression. I recall being asked in one of those "touchy-feely, experimental-type" seminars in junior high which, of many possible "qualities", I would most like to possess. Some of the choices included "wealth", "health", "success" and "happiness". Most people chose "health". I, without hesitation, chose "happiness". After all, if you're miserable, what value do any of those other things possess? I figured, even if I was poor, unhealthy and unsuccessful, if I was happy, I could overlook those things and still enjoy my life. I suppose, after all these years, I still wish for that.