Bubble Berry Pie

Most of the blog titles I liked were already taken: blueberry pie, bumbleberry pie, blueberry bubble gum, bubbleberry pie.

The only explanation for why I like these blog titles is the "b" sounds. That's it.

I didn't want to choose anything resembling my real name this time. Not because of privacy issues-- I'm far too big-mouthed for that. I am not trying to conceal my identity here, but I'm sure it will come up. It's because I am trying to create something a little new here, even if my blog posts end up sounding exactly the same as they did on my old blog.

I have to look at a new page, a new place. I just needed something new.

It has taken me months even to be able to create just this. You have no idea how hard it was to post this, how resistant I have been even to doing it.
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Part of the reason it was hard for me to begin blogging again is that everything is hard these days. Getting out of bed is the hardest. I can sleep for twelve hours and still want to take a nap later when faced with the prospect of cooking dinner or washing dishes.

Yes, I know this means I am depressed. Last night, I was recounting to friends the fact that when my doctor initially diagnosed me with depression, I started to cry. I was crying because it seemed OBVIOUS to me that I was depressed-- but depression wasn't, I thought at the time, the problem that needed to be fixed.

Apparently, I was wrong.

I still take anti-depressants, but sometimes life whammies you anyway. I suppose I could ask for a new pill or a larger dose, but that just seems like effort to me. Here is what I think: In Anne Lamott's great book Operating Instructions, she tells the story of a friend who has a sick cat. The cat lies in a puddle, in the middle of a great rain, and doesn't move. People want to take the cat to the vet. Someone stops them and says, "The cat is doing what it needs to be doing right now. If you move it, it will die."

Sure enough, after a few days of lying in the puddle, the cat is fine.

I am doing the human equivalent of lying in that puddle. I know my head is up my ass. But that is where it seems to need to be. And whenever I try to take major steps to get myself out of the puddle or take myself to the vet, some small voice tells me that I am exactly where I need to be, doing what I need to be doing. I can pay my bills, I care for my children, I shower, the dishes get done. There is just a tremendous amount of sleeping in between.
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Isn't it funny how even though there is not a whole lot going on, I finally decided to write about it?