Really...

I am sitting here staring at a prescription for anti-depressant meds and thinking really, do I really have to take a drug to be happy? My wonderful husband, beautiful and mostly sweet children, a gorgeous house, my dream yard and lots of great opportunities...why don't they make me happy?

I have had this stupid prescription for a month. It sits there in my purse - a cruel reality check every time I go shopping (which is frequently...trying to be happy) that I am broken some how.

I have written and then deleted who knows how many posts about this cloud that hangs over my head constantly. Is it something that I should share. I go back and forth. I think, well, it is my journal - I need to write about it. And then I delete it because does the world need to know about it? Then I write it again, why should I be ashamed to let my friends and family know. And then I delete it again, because I don't want anybody to know.

I just want to cry all the time. Cry because I'm not happy. Cry for being unhappy when I should be happy. Cry because I might start taking a drug to make me "Fake" happy. Thinking about how much of a better mother I could have been makes me cry. Then there are the times when I thought my marriage was falling apart - where those real or exaggerated misperceptions caused by my brains inability to produce happy juice. And more crying because with all of my blessing I want to just stay in bed all day and sleep it all away. What a waste. My life is a waste.

I went to the doctor thinking I had thyroid problems and I came back knowing I had psychological problems. After that, I started thinking and remembering all the times I have brushed shoulders with knowing and turned around and ran. Way back in middle school, my teacher had me visit the school psychologist. I guess my poetry was too depressing. Several years back there was a trip to a counselor who instead of helping with the issues at hand couldn't get past her desire to focus on her belief that I was depressed. We never went back...I was so insulted. How dare she, she didn't know me at all. Then two years ago, a visit to the doc, she told me she thought I was depressed (I went in for my annual exam of all things). I laughed it off in a nervous chuckle of denial. I even talked with a friend about it in the park who did make me feel like depression wasn't leprosy...but still it wasn't me. Years passed and now here it is again. This time more concrete. Lots of tests were run and all I have to show for it is phantom unhappiness and a prescription for welbutran.

But I am outgoing. I love to have a good time. Can assertive party addicts be depressed?

Do I want to fill the prescription? If I do will I be on meds for the rest of my life? Will I be happy...knowing I am faking it, not just with my fabulous acting skills anymore, but chemically.

Anyway this time I am going to publish this dumb post. I think my children should know someday when they are reading this back that I wanted to be a better person. But I am broken. And for right now I am too scared to do anything about it.

PLEASE DON'T LEAVE A COMMENT. PLEASE HONOR THAT. I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT WANT TO HEAR A WORD ABOUT IT. I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ATTEMPTS TO CHEER ME UP. I HAVE THE DUMB DRUGS AFTER ALL IF I EVER DECIDE TO USE THEM.