April 28, 2005   I'm depressed. Not hugely, as in lay on the freeway and play speedbump depressed, but it's there. A sense of malaise, of meaninglessness, nestled in my chest like a crate of rotten eggs, generally stinking up the place.

It isn't serious and undoubtedly will pass, but with how severe and chronic my past battles with depression have been, I get worried any time the big D rears its ugly head, even if its only to yawn in my general direction.

It's been lurking for awhile and I've tried to ignore it, but I'm thinking perhaps it would be better to acknowledge it. Not invite it in for coffee or anything, but just say, "yes, I see you there, but don't move any closer. I've got wellbutrin and I'm not afraid to use it."

At that point depression would laugh maniacally and say, "Fool! You may not be afraid to use your antidepressant, but you sure as hell can't remember to take it! That's why I'm here! Buwahahaha!!"

Damn, I hate it when depression is right, but I have slacked off on all my meds (insulin sensitizer, antidepressant, vitamins), which is why I'm feeling less than spiffy. Skipping my antidepressant is bad enough, but add wacky glucose and insulin levels to the mix and it's suprising I'm still in a full and upright position.

So it's back to the meds for me and then life, the universe and everything will be pharmaceutically delicious. Or, at the very least, it'll stop me from talking to the walls, losing arguments with depression, and contemplating a career as a speedbumb. Because, contrary to popular opinion, being a speedbump isn't the flashy, jet set life Hollywood makes it out to be.

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