I had a Christmas tree in my living until last Sunday. That's right. A Christmas tree.
Turns out I was depressed again. Not debilitating. Straight-jacket. Kill myself depressed. That would be too easy. I could just be committed and get it over with.
But no, what I struggle with is much more subtle than that. A pull the covers over my head. Hide. Cry about commercials depressed. A depressed that masquerades as being tired and cranky and a burnt out graduate student.
A depressed that I don't even notice until a friend comes over and says, "Why the fuck is your Christmas tree still up?" And then suddenly all the avoiding phone calls, huffy exchanges with my colleagues, disaster of a house, and excessive Sex and City watching makes sense.
Oh right. This. Again.
And then I have to dig myself out. Wash the weeks old dirty dishes. Hang up the clothes. Call everyone back.
Take down the fucking Christmas tree.
Tell you I missed you and that I'll be back soon.