The Fog

The fog crept in about a week ago.
It's a dark fog. A heavy fog. A dirty fog.
It likes to sit in the top of my stomach.
I haven't been that hungry this past week. I've lost about 5 pounds. That's the silver lining to the empty vortex of depression.
I haven't been in a depression since I sobered up in December of 2009.
Before that, I was in a depression for years, punctuated by bouts of drunken elation. There was a lot of punctuation, I was drunk nearly every night. I picture the punctuation as an exclamation point because it usually ended that was, and not in a good way.
I'm writing because I don't know what else to do, and I write.
I am in a new city with a new job, recently divorced, lost my mom, step-dad and beloved cat all in the last three years.
Some might say I have a reason to be depressed. I don't.
My life is better now than it has ever been. I have a great job. I am a size two (okay four). My hair is long and glowing. I have people who love me. And most important, I am sober..
I am in control of my life, my actions, my words.
But not my feelings.
I sometimes say my happiness is directly correlated to my weight, length and style of my hair and my fake tan.
I have been overweight much of my life and depressed much of my life.
Now the weight is gone and the cloud still looms, so there goes that theory.
This 'depression while sober' crap is all new to me. I have felt flipping spectacular for the last 18 months since I've been in recovery.
Now that I think about it, I have felt too spectacular. I think I have been in a hypo-mania for much of the time. It was a lot of fun. I want it back.
No task to big, no challenge to great; I was great, and I could do it. I was a freaking warrior, a leader, a trailblazer, a manic Joan of Ark.
I got shit done. Deadlines met. Eyebrows waxed. Floors mopped. Cat box cleaned. Cats cleaned.
I kind of knew what was going on. The mania was not continual. I can rapid-cycle, meaning episodes can last a few days or a few months.
I can feel them starting. I like to tell ex-husband #2 (I am friends with both of them) that 'Manic Flight 5150 is ready for departure."
Then I fly, hit some turbulence then either land or crash.
Now I am on a submarine. I'll call it the 'U.S.S. Foreboding.'
It descended real quick, right after a one-week romance with a tattooed yoga instructor. I slept with him and he stopped calling. The sex was awkward. The romance became awkward.
He was my first since my divorce so it was kind of like losing my virginity again. I wasn't falling in love with him or anything like that, but he was meeting my much-needy emotional needs and all of the sudden they were no longer met.
He is not why I am depressed... good riddance. He was the trigger that aided in the eruption on the volcano of gloom, that's been building, crackling and heating up somewhere inside me.
In my drunken days I would get suicidal and cut on myself. Not now. I thought the quicksand was real then. While the sadness, crying, non-stop carnival of negative thoughts, regurgitated regrets, and lava rocks in my stomach felt very, very real... I now know they are not real.
It's some weird chemical thingy going haywire in my brain that jacks-up all my endorphins and makes me feel like shit.
I had a long chat with a new friend tonight - a fellow recovering alcoholic whack-job like myself. He suggested I exercise and pray. I'm not religious, so I will meditate. Tomorrow I am joining a gym.
I was thinking of taking a yoga class, but decided it's a little too soon, if you know what I mean.