On depression*

Yesterday, I was thinking, "I'm depressed." I've had that thought before, but therapy has taught me to stop and metaphorically roll it over in my hands. It did seem odd--I am getting my life together in so many ways; why would I be sad?

Then I realized that I was in a lot of pain yesterday due to my ongoing (expletive here) tennis elbow. And that got in the way of exercising, which I'd been hoping to ramp up in preparation for playing in the Coors Cup this coming Labor Day weekend.

What that did, though, was make things a lot brighter, really. I thought, "Well, I could be a drama queen about this, or I could do what I need to make it heal and exercise in a way that doesn't stress it, like walk." So yesterday, I iced and iced it, took it easy last night, and today, I iced it again, and walked the dog at noon. (Good for both of us--she just loves walks, that girl.)

And I declined on Friday's game, after I was done sulking. ("It's OK to sulk, as long as you know that's what you're doing," my therapist would say. Or more often, she'd say something like, "OK, time to get off your pity pot!") And I canceled the sitter for the hockey class tomorrow.

I have a physical therapy appointment next Tuesday morning, and several paper cups half-full of frozen water in the work freezer for some lovely ice massage. I know you're jealous; I can see it from here.


*I'm not talking clinical depression, of course. Just the big pile o'sads kind.