After spending three months in Colorado living, breathing, thinking and dreaming the campaign I landed at National airport late on November 5. My friend K had graciously picked up Bella from her trainer's and met me at the airport where I was greeted ecstatically by both. I was missed and life was good.
Or so I thought.
A malaise came over me. I, who never went to bed without unpacking and putting away the contents of my suitcase(s) neatly into the drawers and closets where they belong, left them untended for several weeks. I finally got tired of tripping over the suitcases so I upended the contents onto my bedroom floor in order to finally put the them away. My clothes and the detrius from my three month stay in Colorado (lots of Obama periphernalia) remained on the bedroom floor. My friends wanted so much to see me and I held them off as I was all "people'd out". I, who am vigilant about monthly pedicures and biweekly eyebrow waxing, couldn't be bothered to make an appointment. I couldn't do much more than wake up, walk the dog, go to the office, work, come home, walk the dog, and then crawl into bed. Weekends were spent sleeping upwards of 16 hours a day.
I'm much more apt to recognize my own personal signs of depression because a) I'd been diagnosed as clinically depressed right after my father passed away (not a state of mind I want to ever revisit) and b) being a naturally happy person, being depressed freaks me out more than most. So I'm careful to monitor myself for any signs. So, excessive sleeping? Check. General lethargy? Check. Change in eating habits? Check. Change in sociability? Check. Roh-oh. Time for a session with the therapist.
But, since insurance based therapists are booked waaaay in advance I wasn't able to get an appointment until December 8. Of course, if I had been suicidal I'm sure I could have seen someone sooner. But being that I only had a case of the blues blahs as I termed my mental state, I was sure that I could make it to December 8 if I could only make myself clean my house and, for that matter, myself (my eyebrows at this point were reaching unibrow proportions - iconic look for Frida Kahlo but not for JoJo).
I asked my good friend K to come over to literally kick me in the ass. But, as soon as I hung up with her, I realized my error in assigning her this task. She isn't a natural ass kicker. Lovely girl, but far too nice to be effective. I turned in desperation to my one of my standup gay boyfriends, Flip. Him, he's a perfect ass kicker.
Some might say that kicking someone in the ass isn't a way to treat a person who is suffering from depression. In my case, it's the perfect way to treat my blues. Generally, I ass kick myself all the time whenever I have self-doubt, self-pity, or self-hate. I remind myself of everything I have going for me and how I should treat myself, my home and loved ones with care, love and respect. Since, I was too tired and too blech to give myself my usual ass kicking, I designated my friends to come over to do so.
I was absolutely correct about K. She was horrible at ass kicking. Far too enabling of my current state of mind. Sorry, K! I still love you lots and you're still one of my favorite people. Flip, on the other hand, was perfect.
"Go fucking clean your room! Quit procrastinating! Get your lazy butt off the couch and go pick up this crap! Stop! Don't want to hear your excuses. There's no excuse for the condition of this house. For that matter, there's no excuse for the condition that you're in. When was the last time you showered? Yesterday? Really? Uhm, do you think maybe some hair product wouldn't be remiss?"
Slowly but surely over the course of the past five days or so, I've pulled my house and myself from the brink. My house is clean and eyebrows and my tootsies are back to their usual immaculate state. I've met my friends (still in small groups) for drinks on Friday and brunch on Sunday.
I'm still keeping my appointment on December 8, but ladies and gentlemen, I believe JoJo is back! Miss me?