We are now in the new house. Phew. It has been over a month and we're nowhere near settled or moved completely in but there is now a strong sense of Home eminating from the textured wood walls. The books are in shelves, toys are in bins, and clothes are mostly in drawers. The kitchen flow is still working itself out as is our new chore chart/schedule, but that will be dealt with.
This month barely held me together. Stress built as if the road crews outside our window were purposefully pouring tar and asphalt over me each day. My one escape from my own spastic thoughts was my collection of Laura Ingalls Wilder stories. I whirled through them lovingly but also desperately. I needed to be out of my head and when the last sentence charged through and ended, I was left with myself and it was frightening. Suddenly I realized I wasn't just stressed or overtired or frustrated. I was depressed. Really, clinically depressed. Usually that wouldn't scare me but I discovered that my ability to recognize it (and therefore deal with it properly) was gone. I could too easily explain the anxious Sad away. My life felt too hectic. There were so many variables that could be contributing (and definitely were) to my unrelenting oppressive mood. Realizing those variables were not the root cause lifted my mood, making me realize that what was going on could be alleviated or even eradicated completely.
So, I keep trying (and looking for a therapist).