For awhile now I've been enjoying the best part of depression: the not-being-depressed part.
It's been fun. I've cleaned my house from top to bottom, I've started (and finished) some lovely new projects, I've gone out on wonderful adventures, and most of all I've enjoyed falling in love with my daughter all over again. Life was pretty good.
Then about a week ago I started to lose interest in things. It started with food and cooking, then cleaning, then showers, then yesterday I totally lost interest in getting out of bed. I just don't see the point. I did it anyway. I did it all anyway. But all it got me was to the middle of the stairs. Where I sat down with my daughter and burst into tears.
This is the crappy part of depression: the having-depression part.
Being in between recovery and relapse I can look at this phase and clearly see what is going on. It's malaise. I can see the forest, but it's like I'm wearing dirty glasses. Everything would be lovely if it wasn't so dingy. Everything would be fun if I wasn't so tired. Everything would taste good, if only I were hungry. It's the malaise that meant there was a four hour gap between when Emily and I were ready to leave the house and when we actually did.
But since I am in recovery I actually did leave the house. But I don't really see the point.