My journal entry on 3/16/2011 was succinct and completely summed up how I was feeling. It wasn't pretty:
“Not very happy lately. Still running around 4 times a week,
but only out of necessity, not enjoyment.
I never want to do anything, and I do things only out of
necessity. I'm having trouble concentrating at school, remembering
the kid’s names and the lessons for first graders. Dawned on me
while running that I think I might need anti depressants. I may
talk to Adam about this soon if I keep feeling this way.”
So...yeah. Obviously, I was a mess. The funny thing was, I knew it. I wrote in my journal as if someone would pick it up and read it, feel sorry for me, and guide me in the right direction. Of course that didn't happen because the only person who could do that... was me.
I have always kept a journal to help process my thoughts and work through the crap. I would quickly spew the emotions (good or bad) onto the pages, with the hopes that the words would serve as an outlet, and if necessary, push me towards a positive solution. This had been effective for years.
The problem was, my two fool-proof coping mechanisms; running and journaling, were no longer helping. They weren't enough. And that could only mean trouble. Especially if your seventh grader, who was already struggling with the ability to budget her time and carry through with basic life skills, was instantly shut out by one of her best friends.
Oh, the good times they were a-coming...
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