A small black dog has stopped by for a visit, and seems to be taking it's sweet time leaving.
In deference to those who suffer greatly from depression, I must clarify, keeping things in proportion, that I'm basically suffering a small malaise. You know, the usual things: the basic and ultimate futility of life, the consequences of aging, a lingering IRS problem that just won't resolve itself, people dying. Like I said, the usual.
It took me years to realize that I actually wasn't a depressed person. In fact, I'm basically a stupid optimist in the face of reality. I will admit to fairly constant anxiety, which, after experiencing the panic attack from hell in San Francisco some years ago, I learned to treat with a clever prescription taken once daily.
Last night I felt the need to apologize to Tim for "just not being myself" lately. He agreed with me. I'm not myself. And I just have to fuckin' snap out of it. This is supposed to be my favorite time of year, after all.
I know if I focus on the holidays, and their attendant social functions, I can force myself out of the inertia I'm feeling. A vacation would be really cool, but I basically don't have anything I can plan until April.
Something's gotta give.