Winter in my soul

I've noticed one thing that's been happening over the last two years. My agoraphobia is getting  worse and worse. I can get out of my apartment one day a week, the rest- the other six days I am too afraid? fearful? anxious? to leave. It was never like this.

I haven't seen my psychiatrist in a month. I haven't seen the state worker since Thanksgiving. I'm overwhelmed. No energy. It's like a Zombie- I'm walking dead.

A well meaning family member begs me to go back on meds. I have scripts for Prozac and Abilify, drugs the doctor wants me to take. The doctor and my family want me to consider out patient therapy. Anything.

I know something's not right. Two days ago I made myself get dressed, and go to the supermarket because I needed kitty litter. I bought some food for me and lots of cat food for her, little cans of Fancy Feast. Milk, eggs, half and half, cheese, bread, coffee. Some pasta and sauce, a box of clementines. I treated myself to a hot dog at the Sonic across the street. As I was driving into my apartment complex, a well meaning neighbor stopped me for a chat.

"You never leave your apartment anymore", he said, solemnly to me.

"I'm too depressed to", I say, matter of factly.

"I get depressed too. I go out to the gym two hours a day and I feel better".

"I can't do that right now", I say with tears in my eyes. "It's not an option"

"Because you're overweight? Most of the people at the gym are overweight".

He doesn't understand. He wouldn't. I need help, dammit. I can't get out of bed. I will to do the most basic functions now. Use the toilet. Walk into the kitchen, feed the cat. Change the litter box. Crawl back to bed.

I can't cry anymore. I'm cried out. I've cried enough tears in the last month I could start the second Noah's flood. Now my eyes are so dry they are bothering me, I had to purchase eye drops for the first time in my life.

I've had depressions before. I've been noting the older I get, the more severe they have been getting. How I am not manic like I use to be. One day of hypomania, and a week of depression that's so bad it's like I am a walking corpse. A zombie, only instead of eating brains, I eat at the dreams I had, now broken.

I've had years of therapy. Most of my adult life- well- my entire adult life minus  two years. I know the tools I need. I just can't move. If the building was on fire- I wouldn't move. Only if the cat moved me to action would I try to save myself.

Cat. Silly girl, the only lifeline holding me up. Just a little 9 pound ball of fur and purr. And even then, I can't move. I will adjust my arm, so I can pet her blindly. I'll rub her and put my finger up to her purr box and listen. She deserves a better human than I.

A well meaning friend is telling me to start a blog about the cat. I don't have the energy. Another one is telling me to start writing a book- but my mind is blank. I've written 3 novels in my lifetime. I burnt two after spending years on them, simply because I thought they were no good. Kafka told his friend to burn his manuscripts. I made sure mine were burnt. I once told a therapist, it was like I had committed an abortion, burning those manuscripts.

It was more than just burning. It was the act of destroying something I loved. My dreams were all destroyed, I might as well finish them. As I write this, my body is taking care that my last dream is dying, as it happens to women in their 40s and 50s.

When I use to read tarot cards, I would see the reaction in people's eyes when the death card came out. No- I would say- it's not your death- it's a death of something, that will be reborn. It's a good thing. From Winter comes spring- flowers bloom and life starts up again.

I normally like Winter. This year it feels like it's in my viscera, my bones, my soul. I just don't think Spring will come. I'm hoping it will I don't like the alternative.