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about feeling down

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Nov. 25th, 2004 | 09:31 am
music: a medley of John Denver songs, in my head

melodramatic, everything seems terrible: That's one of the ways I can tell when it's my bedtime.

Another is when absolutely everything seems like just exactly too much effort to bother doing, and/or nothing seems important.

There's at least one brain chemical involved, that somehow seems to directly reflect the aggregate amount of [how much we've done to take care of ourselves]. That's why my recipe for climbing out of depressive moods is a laundry list of routine self-care tasks like sleeping, eating, bathing, and so on. You just run down the checklist, begrudgingly going through the motions of each self-care task until, for seemingly no reason, you feel OK. If you get to the end of the (long) list and still feel bad, well, then I'll say one is entitled to indulge in feeling bad. At that point further research is required, research which hopefully points to what needs to be done.

Like most of the things I know that can be construed as advice, I often forget to apply this to myself.

cross-posted from another thread

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Comments {3}


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from: eposia
date: Nov. 25th, 2004 07:59 am (UTC)

Well then, your advice should also include a sample self-care laundry list, for those people who may be struggling with that concept.

Then other people would be inspired to make their own list, and before you know it you've created an LJ meme! :)

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from: cattnip
date: Nov. 25th, 2004 08:02 am (UTC)

I want to see the list!

To this day I can hear you saying "If you don't want to do anything, you need to go to sleep." I remember it a lot and it helps me when I'm in one of those moods where what I really need is sleep but I can't quite figure it out.

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from: krystiegoddess
date: Nov. 25th, 2004 06:41 pm (UTC)

whew - been there, seen that. My best remedy is generally to sleep . . . then get the heck out of the house. I'm also lucky enough to have a husband & a couple of very close people who recognize the signs & symptoms & try to light a fire under my butt . . . .


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