I didn’t go to the gym.
In fact, after writing my last post – Bath time musings – I didn’t do much of anything but stay in bed, cry at the drop of a hat and try to focus my concentration enough to read a page or two of a book (it turns out, reading the same line over and over again until it “goes in” makes reading a book, or even a newspaper article, quite a lengthy process).
Then, on my first walk out of the house in several days, Reg cut his foot badly on some glass hidden in the snow. One operation, a paw held together by stitches, strict instructions not to walk him for two weeks and £600 later gave me even more excuse to stay in the house.
Reg, thoroughly fed up with his lack of walkies and having this inflatable donut around his neck
So, that’s what we’ve done for the last two and a half weeks. Stayed in the house, mostly in bed, watched everyone else go off to work and function normally, while we slept the days away. Reg because he’s a dog and that’s what dogs do, me because I have depression and I don’t like to be awake when it’s really bad.
It’s starting to lift again though. It always does eventually (but it always comes back) and I start to function like a regular-ish human being again. I say “regular-ish” because, even when I’m well, I don’t think – no, I know – I operate on the same level as most other people; I never have done, but that’s something I’ve become used to. A lifetime of depressive bouts will do that to you. I’m not a miserable or pessimistic person – that’s not what depression is about; if anything, I overcompensate on the happy-go-lucky persona because I want to hide the fact that I’ve felt pretty much dead inside since I was a child. I don’t want people to know. I’m embarrassed by this illness and what I’ve allowed it to do to me. I’ve gone through life hiding it as much as I could and when it’s engulfed me I’ve hidden myself away, stayed in bed for a week here, a week there; been signed off work for a month here, six weeks there; and when my employers/colleagues have started to lose patience with my poor attendance, or I’ve been too embarrassed to go back to work after being signed off sick for weeks, I’ve moved onto job after job after job.
But, Reg has had his stitches out and been given the all clear this week so we’re allowed back out into the world for walkies. I’ve been out every day for the last four days and my mood is noticeably improved thanks to a bit of sunlight, fresh air and twenty minutes of exercise. He’s not up to running marathons again yet (a basset hound marathon consists of being out for two hours, sniffing in the bushes and doing short sprint bursts when the mood arises), and neither am I, but hopefully we’re on our way to building up some stamina again.
As for the gym – I think it’s safe to say I should cancel my membership and save the wasted money. I’ve done this several times over the years, with the best of intentions, and I’ve never used the membership. I must finally accept I am not a gym bunny and never will be – I know 100% that exercise is what I need to continue the fight with my mental health but I think walking my dog is a good enough start for me right now.
little things 