The Depression

I have had some dark days in the past year. Literally dark. Not that I didn't pay my Com Ed bill, but more like I was hiding in my bedroom with the lights off kind of dark. Deep under the covers. It's called depression.
Last winter, after my lifeless baby was sucked from my body, and my husband began to work no less than sixty hours a week, and the days were cold and dreary, things took a turn for the worse. My solace became my bedroom. Where I would flee to, like a Jamaican runner, every single day after work. I cannot tell you what I might have been doing. Nothing inappropriate, but certainly not anything to brag about. It's not like I knitted scarves or took up needlepoint. I just sort of layed there. Wondering when and if this horrible weight would ever go away. As a matter of fact, lack of activity perpetuated the weight and I packed on an additional twelve. Hence the current need for Weight Watchers.
Anyway, it became so out of control ridiculous that I actually referred to the place UNDER the covers as my "house". Like if my husband came home and resumed any sort of normal life, for instance watching TV in the living room or eating in the kitchen, I would text him from my "house" and ask him if he wanted to come over. And clearly, the space ABOVE the covers was not my house, it was our "bedroom". Because when you become so desperate, you lose sight of reality and cling onto these details because you actually have control over them.
The days after "the procedure" were dark indeed. Within two weeks I was blessed with the fact that EIGHT people close to me were pregnant, which at any other time of my life would have been cause to celebrate. And my sister-in-laws baby shower was two days away. And I felt like a monster. Because I skipped the baby shower and layed in my "house". To this day I have no recall of weather or not I even managed to send a gift. And when I said congratulations to the others I was faking. And the girls were all sensitive and would look at me with puppy eyes and would say, no, really, it's okay if you are not happy for me. And to salvage the friendship and do what I knew was most right I would deny them my truth. Which was that I would go running home and cry and hide in my house. And feel mad and angry and pissed that I didn't get to do what they are were so happy about.
And I remember being a little girl and being pissed that my older brother got to go and see Sixteen Candles at the theater and I could not. And even though I was SO mad and jealous I just had to hear about it first hand and pretended to him like it wasn't to save face and to also get to hear ALL about what I missed. So I could feel a little bit like I was a part of the moment, and not waiting anxiously for months for it to come out on HBO or VHS.
The worst part of all was the isolation I felt when thinking about how I would feel if someone told me when I was newly pregnant that THEY had managed to lose thier own baby; It's contagious. Like an STD or something. That's how I would feel. Like the miscarriag-er would somehow rub off on me and get me all miscarriag-ee or something. Like... OMGOSH, what did she DO? I want to know what she did so I don't do that. You know, as if I sat around and smoked crack and ran 40 miles a day or something. It was another reason I hid. So know one would have the opporunity to act bithcy like I might have. Feigning conern for ME when really they just didn't want to emulate me. The WORST form of flattery.
So I am not depressed any more, but again, there is more. Much more. But for today that is enough.