How big was that piece of straw anyway?

You know how there's always the straw that broke the camel's back?  I don't even know where that saying came from.  All I know is that it means that there was one little thing that was added to everything else and the weight of that one little thing caused the camel to go sprawling on the floor in pain.  His owner probably then had to shoot him and sell him to the glue factory because he was no longer useful (I assume that's what they do since that is what they do to horses with broken legs and camels are just horses with humps, right?).  But my point is that there is always that one little thing.  The one thing that makes a person realize that it's just too much.  That something is wrong and needs to change.  One little thing that causes everything else to come crashing down. 

For me, it was laundry.

I opened the door to the laundry room, after having tucked the kids into bed, knowing that I had to wash some jeans to wear to work the next day.  When I opened that door, I was greeted with a pile so large and so right-in-front-of-the-door.  That pile of laundry caused a reaction that was both completely out of the blue and yet completely foreseeable at the same time. 

I stopped breathing.  Tears flowed from my eyes.  And I broke down. 

The straw had broken the camel's back. 

And in that instant, I could no longer deny the fact that there is something wrong.  Something big and scary.  Something that makes me feel broken in ways that only those who have experienced it can imagine.  Something that is so hard for me to say and to admit to that I can barely even think the word.  It's taboo.

But it's familiar ground for me.  I know what I am talking about and I recognize the symptoms. 

I am irritable.  Beyond belief, really.  I snap at people.  I yell at the kids all the time for things that aren't really in their control.  My punishments to them are too severe for their crimes (grounding for a day just for 10 minutes late being home?  Over react much?).  I am more of a control freak than usual.  People get on my nerves when I should be able to just let it slide off my back.

I don't talk.  I think of a lot of things to say but it's too much energy to say them.  I don't listen either.  I have to ask people to repeat things constantly because I have tuned them out.  And not because I have something better to listen to,but because there is literally nothing going through my head.  It's blank.  My mind is never blank, so this scares me a lot. 

The smallest things make me anxious, make me sweat and shake.  Garage saleing with my Aunt, three people walking into my office all at once when I was alone, writing a to do list of things that need to be done that day, balancing my checkbook.  It all causes me great anxiety and stress to just think about. 

I haven't been reading even though I always carry my book.  I obviously haven't been blogging or doing any other writing for that matter.  My home office remains in a half finished state even though I was once completely excited to have my own space and need it to be functional by next Tuesday.  I don't text or talk to my friends or family unless they make first contact.  I don't doodle and mind puzzles make me anxious unless someone else is helping me with them.  I am not excited for a girl's night out even though it's already been planned. 

I don't eat much or drink much.  I am craving something that I can never identify.  I am tired constantly.  I fall asleep around nine and then sleep badly all night.  Waking up several times just to sigh and try to return to sleep.  I could cry at the drop of a hat. 

When I am driving, I am not paying close attention because sometimes when cars pass my thoughts go to what would happen if I swerved over into their lane or they into mine.  My thoughts always end there and I go about my day but the thoughts scare me because they aren't normal thoughts, right? 

Not that anything about me is normal when I am feeling normal but the point is that I'm not feeling normal. 

Does that make sense? 

I guess the point is that this is me, admitting that I have a problem.   It's not the first time in my life.  I've been medicated for this same affliction twice before. 

It's called depression. 

I'm calling the doctor tomorrow.