I have talked about my absolute need for my daily dose of Effexor pretty openly here. I have been faithfully taking said Effexor and I am here to tell ya' that, I think, recent events have overcome the effects of said wonder drug.
My poor, loving, understanding-beyond-belief-and-all-reason husband just cannot comprehend my current state. He knows that I was fine with walking away from the BLF debacle this morning. This evening (they posted the job that I thought for sure was mine this afternoon on the association job board. Ouch.) I am notsomuch fine with it. I am staring-at-the-medicine-cabinet-contemplating-a-permanent-nap not OK with it. I cannot tell you what, in the last 12 hours, has changed.
Maybe I was ready to walk away because I didn't think I'd have to. Maybe the sun was out. Maybe my estrogen was surging. I seriously have no idea and, frighteningly, believe it could be any of the above.
All I know is that when I get like this it literally feels like my soul is screaming. Like I can empathize with that poor cliche-ridden bastard Edvard Munch was trying to put onto canvas when he painted "The Scream." And the thought that that particular painting is so flipping popular and has been trivialized is sadly ironic. (If, indeed, this is the feeling Munch was trying to capture.)
There was a brief transition period between "Fine with it" Chris and "Not OK" Chris. It is the Chris my college friends loooooooooved. She was known as Baking Chris. Today Baking Chris produced way more cookies that should be humanly possible in the short amount of time I was left alone. Sadly, no pies were made (pies and tiramisu were my college depression specialties).
Let's hope Thursday is just as glum, because I have the dough made for peanut butter blossoms and I still need to get my oatmeal, almond-raspberry thumbprint and chocolate crinkle cookies done.