Taking Care

The advantage of having major depressive episodes scattered through your teens and twenties is that by your thirties you have a reasonable idea of how to take care of yourself.

Last night would have been my first anniversary with Eric. I knew I would be sad.

I'd been invited to a party - a costume/weight lifting party, no less - which was obviously going to be crazy silly fun. I clicked "attending" figuring I would want the distraction.

But yesterday afternoon rolled around, and I decided I didn't want distracting. The logical step further, then, was to decide that I didn't actually want to talk to anyone. In person, by phone, or email. Not to mope, but, as Ariel so succinctly puts it, to feel my feelings. And to love myself up a little.

Which I did with dinner.

I had a leisurely wander through the Herb and the Hartman's, letting the shopping build anticipation. Made moroccan spiced salmon, steamed kale, and brown rice. Bought myself some fancy sparkly water and some limes to slice. I set the table nice. Put the fish in the oven, took things the logical step further. Got myself glammed up: heels, fishnets, a swingy green dress with a deep vee. I looked good. Good enough that I felt like fucking myself for about 30 seconds until I remembered that my sex drive is hibernating.

My premonition was correct. I was sad. But it wasn't a wasn't a hollow desperate sad. It wasn't even a crying sad. It was melancholy, but satisfying. It was a good way to acknowledge that I can be sad and loving at the same time; that I can be very much alone and not lonely; that I am entirely capable of taking care.