Cookies for Dinner

Cookies for Dinner

I had a few moments of clarity today, where depression was pushed far enough to the side that it felt like I was wearing snow boots in moderate snow. It doesn't feel nearly as burdensome as concrete overshoes, so with the newfound energy, I went to the store to get more root beer, ice cream, and LaCroix--my new drugs of choice since I've given up wine.

I also got a ton of blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, because with all this energy, maybe I could make a pie! Maybe some blueberry muffins, too! I even pre-made dinner--macaroni and cheese and GUESS WHAT? I DIDN'T RUIN IT.

Alas. Depression crowded back in, not wanting to miss the party.

Plastic tubs of fruit sit on the counter, waiting for me to wash, sort, and freeze them. My husband did the dishes last night, but they piled up again. My daughter refused to eat macaroni and cheese, and my appetite is gone.

I can't seem to gather enough oomph to steam some broccoli (which she sometimes does eat. Weird child.) So, she is having cookies for dinner.

Normally, I'd have a glass (or two or three) of wine, which usually makes me forget that I have depression for a little while, just long enough for me to, you know, be a semi-functional mom.

LaCroix doesn't quite compare to wine's lies. For vaguely flavored water, it's honest. It tells me what I really am capable of.

Even when that means cookies for dinner, compared to baked chicken and broccoli and fresh fruit.

One thing I've been told to do when I'm battling depression is to try to create. My brain isn't working enough to color, or to draw or sketch or scribble--but my fingers can type.

It can type out the guilt I feel for feeling nothing, for being flat.

It can type out how my heart breaks when I tell my daughter to play by herself for a while, or the tears that threaten to come when my dog whines for attention.

It can type out the guilt over having frosted cookies for dinner.

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