Life-or something like it...

It's been a month since I posted last. If you're reading this I'm sorry. I am still alive and kicking...ok breathing more than kicking, at any rate.  The pit and spiral that is depression still has me in her grip. I can say(a bit proudly) that I *did* get out of bed today, and get dressed. I also left the house. Granted-I only went to the Taco Bell drive-thru and got food(I can't say dinner-because that implies there was breakfast or lunch)-but I did get up, and dressed and went out into the world. The last week I have been on 'vacation'. In other words-not at work-but paid like I was. With nowhere to be and no time to be there I had planned several days of working around the house, getting stuff cleaned up and finishing off a few projects. None of that got done. My lower back has been, lets say, problematic. The stiffness and ache I could handle, the sharp shooting pain when I move not so much. I have read 7 books since last Friday, and then yesterday I got the dreaded red-plague. Usually, the pain in the back stops when the cramps start...notice the usually at the beginning of this sentence. fml.
Tomorrow I shall venture to my mother's house and bake a cake(or two) for my father's birthday. His birthday is really Friday, but as that's when I go back to work, my mom asked him if we could move it up a day. My father(being himself) said whenever you want it, I don't care. I will be making his favorite-pineapple upside down cake(straight out of the Betty Crocker Cookbook-sans maraschino cherries).
I have been watching less Doctor Who. The only exception to this was when I re-watched the episode titled "Vincent and the Doctor" . In this episode, the Doctor and Amy visit Vincent Van Gogh during the last year of his life(1890).
I changed my desktop picture to his Almond Blossom painting(which he painted for his nephew's nursery in January 1890)- to remind me that no matter how bad things can seem in the moment-there can still be beauty-and new life, and also to remind me that one of the greatest artists ever-gave in to his depression, only 7 months after creating something so beautiful.
 My favorite part of the episode is when the Doctor explains how he sees life to Amy in the museum after she realizes that there are no new paintings-that Vincent still killed himself at the age of 37.
He says, "The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice-versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant. We definitely added to his pile of good things."
I am in search of more good things to throw on my pile. The bad things-are there and will always be there. but if I can just get that pile of good things a bit higher, then maybe this hole of depression won't seem so deep, maybe I can stand on my pile of good things and see daylight from this hell I'm sinking into, just maybe.
I have been watching more Warehouse 13 gearing up for the new season coming in June. The characters have the one quality I look for on a tv show-the cobbled together family vibe. The very different people who, when thrown together, create their own family from the people around them. I still long for this kind of connection.
Yes, my actual family is nearby, and yes I see them at least once a week, but the number of things they don't realize, or know about me or how my moods really are is astronomical. Yes, I could tell them, but all that would do is make them worry, or get me the "this is a phase-you'll grow out of it" talk again. As I have been depressed most of my life, and they never noticed enough to try to get me any sort of help, I think I'll pass. And when I say I've been depressed most of my life, I'm talking grade school. First or second grade. The only one who ever noticed that I was unhappy, was my Pepe(my dad's dad). When he was dying of cancer, and my parents and I moved up to Connecticut for 6 months or so to help out, he was the reason my parents finally took me back home to Missouri.  He told them that I was miserable and to take me home.  He died later that year.
If I ever doubted that I was loved, I remember that even when bedridden and dying, he noticed me struggling. I was six. Did I complain, no. Did I say anything to anyone, no. Did I just deal with life everyday and muddle through, yes. If that wasn't the tone of how my life would go, I don't know what would be. The only person who noticed that I wasn't happy, died less than a year later.
In college, I met a guy. He was just a friend(at first). We were nearly inseparable. He helped me through some tough times, until one night when we were up talking late and we almost kissed..  That had been the best 6 weeks of my life, right up until his girlfriend got jealous and told him to stop talking to me. so he did. I wasn't trying to be the other woman, I was just surviving college as best as I could. I have his address now,16 years later, and have written him a letter-one that I will probably never send. He married her, and they are still together as far as I know. We had talked about everything, my life growing up, his life, his relationship, my rape, my family, everything. He was the first person I ever told about my rape, that hadn't known me at the time it happened. He never met the guy who did it, and never would. He didn't judge me, or assume that I had brought it on myself. He just held me while I cried. He called me his best friend for a while, and I called him mine. And then the real world crashed in and split us apart forever. After that, my choices of companionship were questionable at best. The suicidal drummer, the self absorbed tenor, the future pedophile, and the "here-let me sex the tears away" sax player. Is it any wonder I ended up a pregnant mistress? and that brings us to now-when I'm married to the father of my children.
And I should have married in quotes-as I'm alone in my apartment while my husband is living somewhere else raising a child that isn't his. It's night and raining-and no one is here to care whether or not I eat, or sleep, or get dressed, or anything. I am alone and blogging about it. If you're reading this-thank you.