I’ve struggled with depression all of my life. It’s kind of a cyclical thing. Sometimes I can identify a trigger for the lowest of lows, but often I am left scratching my head wondering, Why is it so hard to get out of bed and take a shower? Forget doing the dishes (for the love of God please don’t look at the kitchen while you’re visiting) or laundry, let alone the “less necessary” things like taking out the trash (If I mush it down more, I can totally wait until tomorrow. Or the next day!), putting my shoes away (Just watch where you step and you won’t trip!), or vacuuming the floor (The dirt’s not going anywhere, amiright?). The house is an absolute disaster and all I can do is look around and think about what a horrible 1950s housewife I am. Let’s not even think about doing mentally taxing activities like writing stories, blogging, or learning Objective-C (all of which I swore I was going to do).

I’ve been far worse off, but I sure as hell would rather not be in this Valley of Hopelessness right now (or ever again). Anyway, at least I know why my depression has come out to play this time.

I traveled quite a bit this summer (over a week in San Francisco, almost a week in Washington, DC and San Diego, and a trip to my “home” in Colorado) and managed to gain in excess of 20 pounds in seven weeks. For those of you not keeping track at home, it took me a year to lose those 20-25 pounds the first time. Maintaining my weight was pretty effortless while I remained in Phoenix, and it was quite a shock to come back from it all to realize that this weight problem I have is for real. It’s never going to go away, no matter how skinny I get. Now my inner Mad-Eye Moody is doing his stomping shuffle around in my brain screaming, “Con-stant VIGILANCE” any time I contemplate maybe putting a teaspoon of sugar in my coffee. My inner fat girl is curled up in a cobwebby corner with a journal, writing bad poetry about how the struggle won’t pay off anyway–I might as well have that amazing chocolate cake even though it’ll make me feel horrible later (Fat girls deserve to feel horrible all the time; we’re not really people anyway.).

I’m also faced with the reality that I’m going to have to find a job soon. I don’t know where to look. I don’t know what I’d enjoy. Can I stand in a street with a Will blog for munnies sign? Would I actually have to WRITE? Would anyone read what I wrote? What would I write about? Oh Lord, I’m overwhelmed.

There you have it; I’m a 28 year-old woman with a slew of amazingly real First World Problems. If you need me, I’ll be in bed.