I admit it

Okay, it's official. I'm depressed.
Why else would I be sitting here writing to you at the crack of dawn? And often awake and panicked at the first break of light?
And anyway, if a guy says it, it must be true, right?
Read a moving first-person story yesterday in one of the British newspapers about a successful writer, husband and father of four kids who fell into a deep depression after moving to a big house in the country. (Not another country, folks, just THE country. I bet he still kept his car and his sofa.)
Anyway, it was a lovely, poignant story, because he told the truth. How he was embarassed to admit it, because so many people are dealing with huge economic issues now (like getting kicked out of their houses) and life-threatening illnesses.
I know exactly what he meant. That's how I've been feeling.
Not wanting to admit how I feel to anybody, making it feel even worse and more isolating, because, yes, people are dealing with life-threatening illnesses.
And I know my life-threatening illnesses. I buried two elderly parents not that long ago (by myself, pretty much) and saw my husband through one. I was on a first-name basis with my local hospital for quite awhile back in the States.
So yeah, that's such a hard battle, I know.
So I apologize to anyone who's reading this who has a life-threatening illness. I'm so sorry for your pain.
But then he wrote about his symptoms.
How he felt he had lost his moorings, how the rug of stability and comfort had been pulled out from under him.
Yep. That's my flying carpet that's never gonna land feeling.
How he woke up panicking every morning, and crying.
Yep. Yep.
How his heart raced in anxiety and fear for the future, particularly in the early morning.
Check.
How he felt there was no escaping it, no out.
How he withdrew from people he knew who probably wanted to help.
Check. Check. Check.
So. Now what?
The guy in the story had a complete collapse one night and his (loving and supportive) wife took him to the GP, where they put him under the care of a psychiatrist, and got him on the happy meds.
And then slowly he began to feel better. And now he's much better, seeing the joy in his life again. And that's why he was writing the story.
I could feel a book coming as I read. Why is it that millions of women are depresssed and it's just normal everyday shit and then when guys admit it, you can feel the six-figure book advance check landing as you read?
Is male depression somehow more dramatic? Or is it just that when they admit it, just that fact in itself is book-worthy?
Anyway, he was advocating the meds, to help one get over the hump, just for awhile, to jump-start your brain.
Don't want to go on any meds.
Think that my problem is situational.
Gave up too much.
For too little in return.
Don't like it here enough.
Too old to waste time living in places I don't like that much.
Want to get going with creating my next life in a place I want to create it. In my own house that I can make nice, like I like to do.
That's got a living room big enough for a Christmas tree -- and my two sons.
Get a car. Get a comfy sofa. Get a life.
I don't know. Stop feeling like this.