Day 77, August 4

You probably feel that you are on pretty intimate terms with my various body parts by now.  You've learned about my 2 stomachs, my thighs that rub together to produce enough friction to light a hundred boy scout campfires, my drooping breasts, my newly replaced hip, not to mention the hairs that grow in increasingly embarrassing places.

Are you asking yourselves "What can the crazy lady write about now?"

Well, it's going to be a different kind of post.  Skip it if you'd like as it won't be the usual fare.

In the midst of dealing with ever-changing bodies, menopausal women also face changes in their emotions.  My emotions have always been haywire.  Part of that is that I really am crazy.  (Ask my family.)  Part of that is due to chemical depression.  There.  I've said it.  I suffer from chemical depression and have for nearly 40 years. 

To use the vernacular, it sucks. 

Depression takes an all right day and turns it on its head until its victim wants to hide under the covers and wait for the cloud to pass.  Depression makes you wonder why you bother to get up at all and why you should stay up if you did manage to pull yourself out of the bed.  Depression makes you feel like the worst kind of failure.  Depression makes you doubt the love of your family and friends.  Depression makes you doubt the love of your Father in Heaven. 

Good Mormon women aren't supposed to admit to any of this. We are suppose to hold our heads up high, sing "High on a Mountain Top" and praise be that we are alive.  Good thing that I've never claimed to be a Good Mormon Woman, now referred to as GMWs.

Take a depressed woman, add the screwed up hormones of menopause, and you have a woman ready to use a taser or gun on her nearest and dearest.  Is it any wonder my beloved refused to buy me a weapon for my birthday?  (See?  I still have my sense of humor.)  Add to that nasty brew a healthy dose of the guilt that GMWs carry around like the Ancient Mariner carried around the infamous albatross and you have a recipe for disaster.

Depression is a disease.  It is a disease as debilitating as diabetes, as pernicious as high blood pressure, and as nasty as cancer.  Yet we are fearful to tell others about it.  We are fearful that they will turn away from us.  We are fearful that other GMWs and GMM (Good Mormon Men) will look down on us. 

Think that's not so?  Ask any depressed woman and you will hear "No, I can't talk about that.  I can't let others know.  They'll tell me to eat the right foods.  They'll tell me to read the scriptures.  They'll tell me to serve others.  They'll tell me to run 5 miles every day."

All good things.  But they won't cure chemical depression.  And neither will judging them. 

Did you know that Utah, especially Utah County, has one of the highest rates of depression in the country?  Did you also know that Utah has one of the highest rates of suicide in the country?  Something to ponder.

Okay.  Enough of this depressing stuff.  (I made a funny.)

Here's our joke for the day:  How many depressed women does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer:  Five.  One to change it and four to bring Prozac.