Dip.

Some weeks just seem to be more uphill than others. Or maybe it's months. Either way, I seem to have been mired in lethargy just lately. I can't remember the last time I picked up my camera, there are myriad computer magazines lying pristine in their untouchedness, and I find myself looking for any excuse at all not to leave the house.

Depression is a strange thing. I seem to veer from fired-up and enthusiastic about life, to feeling the need to hunker down and conserve every last drop of energy. For what exactly I'm not sure. Projects that I started so keenly suddenly seem like an awful lot of effort. I find myself concentrating on one thing (currently ironing) and attacking that with gusto, as if to prove to myself that I'm functioning, that I haven't given up. The fact that I'm doing that to the exclusion of anything else at all beyond the bare necessities can't be good. I found myself ironing a dishcloth this morning. This is not a good sign.

I have to go out today. I have promised a friend that she can take her pick from some of the dresses that no longer fit Kid-at-the-Bottom-of-the-Heap. This means finding those dresses (and potentially ironing them) and going to her house. I have a deadline. But the mere fact I'm sitting here typing this means that I am pushing back against it, as if leaving it to the last minute is the only way I can make myself go.

And there's something else that doesn't make sense to me. This week, I'm taking my three camping. I have agreed that Biggest Kid can bring a pal. So there's me, and four kids, off on an adventure. Why is it that this doesn't faze me in the least, but I can barely bring myself to go and post a letter? The big things, the complicated things, the grand gestures, all seem eminently do-able. The minutiae of daily life on the other hand serve only to grind away at my confidence. Bah. Perhaps it's just the rain. Perhaps if the sun would just make an appearance occasionally I'd feel better. Nobody feels good with perma-soaked trouser hems.