Haha, you guys remember that one time I said that I was going to start blogging about all my icky squicky feelings and start flaunting my emotional muffintop, but instead I checked out for over a fortnight? HAHAHA—er, wait.
Truth is, when I sat down to write this morning, this post was going to be about how much fun we had taking Shannon and Travis on a Dirty Thirty birthday getaway to Arizona (and how I need to go to a Betty Ford Clinic to detox from the acts of terrorism I accidentally committed against my liver).
But I can’t do that, Dave. Why? Well, it’s kind of a long story. Let’s rewind to the beginning of October, shall we?
Originally I’d planned to take a sabbatical from being online to try and enjoy things IRL for a change. On October 6, I took my dad to see Peter Gabriel at the Hollywood Bowl, but instead of sitting back and enjoying it, I kept finding myself doing things like checking in on FourSquare and sharing it across social networks and taking video to remember the night by.
[sure, I’m ragging on it now, but wouldn’t it be a waste NOT to share it?!]
Problem is, it left a really rotten taste in my mouth. Why couldn’t I just live in the moment? What is this weird compulsion to broadcast the evening and turn it into a thing to flaunt? Why did I need to validate it with a bunch of likes and retweets? It didn’t feel right. Here I was, spending a rare evening alone with my dad after a month of heartache and loss for the both of us. I haven’t talked about him much on here because he’s a private man, but I really love and admire and respect my dad. We shared a really special moment of peace and quiet at the Bowl that night, and I don’t know why I felt I had to do what seems like checking out and cheapening that joy with a silly need to validate the evening by showing it off on Facebook and Twitter.
So, I decided to give living offline a try, and I dropped off the grid. It was nice. I read a lot. I walked through parks. I went on daytrips around town with Shannon to take photos and get some fresh air. And it was lovely, being able to leave my phone at home and not care! I don’t have reception out here? WUNDERBAR!
But then, it started. A shadow and a threat started growing in my mind. (Ten internet dollars to the first nerd who gets that reference.) That’s right: I felt the funk creeping back in. It was subtle at first, but it’s time. I have to admit that the Big D is back on the radar. Good news is, I decided to do something about it. As of last week, I’m officially back on the antidepressants. Yep, those same goddamn antidepressants I’ve been trying to wean off of for almost four months.
SUCH A BUMMER. All that time weathering the withdrawls (which are notoriously terrible for my particular brand of poison), out the window. I feel like such an ass! There I was feeling miserable for months during a hard time, just have to jump back on them.
But the die has been cast. If you have diabetes, you gotta take the insulin. If you have depression, you gotta take your meds just the same. It’s awful and inconvenient and my side effects are back like mad (HELLOOOOO HOT FLASHES!), but I have to take care of myself, and if that means jumping back on the Cymbalta bandwagon, so be it.
So, that’s where I am. I went from not writing because I wanted to try living in the real world for a bit, and I ended up not writing because my muse is on hiatus. But hey, them’s the breaks. Hopefully my pharmaceutical cocktail kicks in soon and I can get back to my usually scheduled mischief. Until then, I have Netflix and a sofa with a Nicole-shaped dent in it waiting for me.
Tune du Jour: Don’t Give Up by Peter Gabriel. This song is the reason I bought the concert tickets in the first place. My dad’s favorite song of the night. Mine, too. MUSHY MUSH TIME ALERT, though. This song is bursting with feels.