A Surprisingly Sane Blog

Holy freaking crap.  I can’t remember the last time I (or have I ever?) had so much fun in one weekend.

I haven’t been to a dance competition since my brain oozed out my ear ten months ago.  I just haven’t been strong enough to face over-stimulation in those sort of extremes this year, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to handle it.

Except this weekend, I took that leap and crossed the border to meet up with a whole slew of other dancers.  I had a fabulous time making new friends and scaring the crap out of the guys from Seattle and Canada with my “oh-my-gawd-did-you-just-yell-penis-in-a-crowded-room” approach to life.  I also drank like a fish (sans hangover- go me!), stayed out until 5 a.m., enjoyed flirting with all the cute men on the dance floor, and even came home with a star-shaped trophy for placing in the advanced spotlight finals.

My feet are a callused, blistered mess, and I slept a whopping 8 hours the entire weekend.  Exhausted muscles and a multitude of hard-earned bruises feel a bit more like badges of honor rather than painful nuisances.  And even though I was so achy and tired that I could hardly get up the stairs last night, I’ve got the insatiable urge to put my dance shoes back on this morning.

A special thanks to my incredible husband for watching the girls and supporting me more than I deserve.  You rock!

But while I had such an amazing time this weekend, I felt a little sad when I woke up this morning.  Regardless of how far away I get from that psychotic breakdown I had at the beginning of the year, I will never forget what my life was like before I started treatment for depression. That ghost memory that never fades no matter how far away I run.

I’ve been to more conventions over the last several years than I can count… and I haven’t walked away feeling good about a single one of them even when I’ve done extremely well in competition.  I just couldn’t enjoy myself while doing everything in my power to avoid the inevitable anxiety and panic attacks.  That knowledge that everyone else belonged there except me.  The desire to hide under the bed so I could avoid painting a smile on my unwilling lips.  It was never natural, and it was never fun.

I went because I hoped that eventually it would be fun.  I couldn’t understand why everyone else was having a blast while I could hardly breathe.  What the hell was wrong with me?  Why couldn’t I fit in?  I wanted to be one of the other people more than I need coffee and chocolate, and if you’re a regular reader YOU KNOW HOW IMPORTANT THOSE ARE IN MY LIFE. It made me hate myself even more than I already did.

I cannot believe the difference the medication has made for me, and it saddens me to know that my quality of life could have been so much better had I known that treatment really was necessary in my fucked-up case.

Better late than never, I guess.  And at least I know now that it wasn’t a matter of not belonging, it was just that the depression was covering the entrance to the door I needed to walk through.

Current Mood: Happy