In recent weeks — especially this past weekend when I declined to get out of bed for most of the day on Saturday — I’ve concluded that I may just be too depressed to do what I need to do.

I set my alarm every morning for 6 a.m., and, fairly reliably, I re-set it for 7. I put off doing the dishes until the sink runneth over. I often don’t shower on weekends (TMI, I know…).  I wear ratty, ugly shoes (black, worn with white socks), loose yoga pants and maternity tops. (Not to work, but the rest of the time.) I think murky thoughts about my future, always managing to find the worst possible outcome to focus upon.

I think I’ve really been depressed. It’s not like I haven’t experienced this, historically. I’ve been on medication in the past, but not since I was pregnant with the boy. So, in my very slow way, I finally managed to make an appointment with a psychiatrist. And today I went.

It was kind of odd sitting down and telling him why I was there. I was so nervous going in — and my morning coffee might have heightened that feeling. But the strangest part was how I really felt the urge to burst into tears, when I thought about the way I’ve been feeling lately. I genuinely had to hold myself back, with this complete stranger. I’m not contemplating suicide or anything at that level, but it’s been extremely hard to think very positively about my future. There’s still the overhanging sadness of my mother’s death (1998), and a pregnancy that had a heartbreaking outcome (2003). Now, I’m all by myself in taking care of a 19-month-old. My husband’s job situation is strange and tenuous, and he’s pretty much away from home all the time. My job is fun, but stressful and time-consuming. Where is the joy?

I’m hoping the prescription I got today, for bupropion SR (aka Wellbutrin), will help me find some. I already feel some placebo-effect positivity peeking through the clouds. The medicine isn’t the final answer, I know, but maybe it will help me get motivated to do the exercise and healthier eating that I know I need to be doing.

The saga continues…

This — Unhappy Meals — is awesome. I haven’t entirely finished reading it but the beginning is priceless.

The last couple of weeks have held a few setbacks for me. A whirlwind trip to NYC — fly in Tuesday a.m., leave Wednesday p.m. — was quite an adventure. And, did I mention, I had to take the boy with me?  (A recent NYT column compares traveling with a baby solo as good training for being a war correspondent in Iraq. I’d have to agree.)

Anyway, suffice it to say that the boy’s sleep schedule (and mine) have been completely out of whack, which has made waking up earlier than him quite difficult. And food… well, it hasn’t been great, but it hasn’t been three-pounds-of-toffee bad, either.

Tonight I’m baking some lovely fish (garlic and basil-encrusted cod from TJs) and steaming some brown rice in chicken broth. Maybe I’ll sautee some apples, too. My new 5-a-day idea: fruits as components of a main meal. The other night, I sauteed some pre-cooked grilled chicken pieces, added a banana, and then tossed it all with brown rice. The boy was thrilled. He coudn’t put it in his mouth fast enough. And I was so happy that I’d made him something healthy that he was so crazy about.

We are pretty much leading the single-parent family life these days. I’m sort of resigned to life without my husband, which is so sad in some ways. But, in others, it’s kind of liberating because I can do whatever I want without consulting anyone. (He is still in NYC all the time — his company is now looking for an apartment for him — though he visits every other weekend. It really IS a visit, and nothing resembling real family life.) I’m really of two minds at what I think about this. Earlier today, I cried at the thought of leaving our little East Bay town behind, were we to move to the East Coast.

Oops. The boy is waking up. Gotta run.

UPDATE: The TJs basil-encrusted salmon was not so great, and I somehow undercooked the rice. Oh, well… at least the sauteed apples were a hit. 

Ok, so the last couple of days have been a disaster, exercise-wise. The boy keeps waking up in the middle of the night, and insisting that he sleep in my bed with me. This makes it pretty much impossible for me to wake up before him and slip away unnoticed (and not worry about him rolling off the bed). The habit, it is probably a bad one. The cuddling, though, is priceless.

Since part of my exercise problem is caused by the fact that I can’t do the treadmill when he’s around, for safety reasons, I have hit upon another potential solution. I bought a 3 DVD set of The Firm, and something called a "Fanny Lifter," the name of which is, of course, obscene in the UK. So now, the Boy and I can do exercises together! Well, it’s worth a shot, anyway…

It’ll be good for him to associate something active with the TV, anyway. He’s taken to coming into the living room, opening up the armoire doors, and hitting the TV screen and grunting. We only let him watch like an hour a day, and ususually I’m there with him, but it wouldn’t hurt to get some moves going, too. And good for my fitness, too, of course.

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P.S. Food, and even mood, have been pretty crap. I catch myself sometimes, even at work, entering into this passive, depressive state where I just listen and don’t speak up. And who ever suggested ordering 3 POUNDS of toffee online was a good idea? Thank goodness it’s gone, now. Well, gone to my waist, but that’s another story….

Like everyone else, I’m looking at the start of a new year as an opportunity for a fresh beginning. I’ve been reading a lot, noteably The Rules of "Normal" Eating and Mindless Eating: Why We Eat More Than We Think, and they’ve both really got me out of the "diet" mentality. They’ve also both got me thinking about this as a long-term lifestyle choice, not a quick-fix that has to be perfect right out of the gate.

So my new philosophy is that I want to change one thing, and one thing only, every week — if even that often. With that kind of approach, surely I can keep up these good habits more easily. I concentrate on the one thing, and am successful, which gears me up to achieving the second thing (in addition), in the second week.

Week one, which actually didn’t start until Thursday, due to the short week and other factors, I  started exercising on the treadmill every morning. I wake at 6, when hopefully the boy hasn’t begun to stir (or at least is content to stay in his bed), and come downstairs to fold down the treadmill and walk for 30 minutes. I credit laying out my clothes and shoes the night before as a reason for my success in accomplishing this 2 days in a row. I will also need to do serious laundry this weekend (and in future) to keep up with this habit, but that’s a good idea, anyway, right?

So far, I’ve been steady at about 4 to 4.2 mph — not fast, but I’m just starting and this is the new moderation plan.  I’m feeling the exercise in my midsection, mostly, but some in my legs, too. This is really important, because sometime over the last couple of weeks — with sleeping on other people’s beds, etc. — I’ve really started to feel my age and my weight. My body is creaking, in other words, and I need all the muscle strength I can get to maintain activity. So this battle (mentally) has gone from being about appearance to being fundamentally about health and longevity. And all it took was for me to start getting old