Last week, I had an emotional unraveling. I was going to call it a "meltdown," but then I reconsidered because that sounded a bit too glib, a bit too hip and happening. Not quite up to the task of describing this.
Every thought brought more tears, tears overbrimming. For years, my MO had been to push through, work, ignore. For some reason, I could no longer do so. "Where have the years gone?" I asked again. "Where has the time gone?" "How have I come to this?"
If I were a chronically and/or clinically depressed person, I imagine that I would have been incapable of coming up with solutions--confiding my feelings to my husband, crying in his arms, cleaning out my drawers and rearranging my office, scaling back with a focus and energy I hadn't felt for a long time (again, the dishabituation?). If I were a chronically and/or clinically depressed person, I imagine that these feelings would not have dispersed so quickly. And I will not say that they have dispersed entirely. The memory hovers, of how difficult those few days were.