Sadly, for Bryan, I have an awful tendency to slip into depression.

I was diagnosed with Post-Partum Depression about five months after Tony was born, and let me tell you, that was the best choice I’ve ever ever made. I’ve written about it before, about how I couldn’t articulate how consuming the weight of depression was, because every time I tried I sounded trite.

After about two years on Lexapro, I went off my drugs. I went cold-turkey, when I was faced with sudden unemployment, which – hindsight 20/20 and all that jazz – was not the smartest idea. But I needed to feel stuff again, which makes no sense if you’ve never been there, I’m sure. Lexapro takes the edge off of all the emotions – the highs are not as high, but the lows are not as low, and that’s ultimately the point. I was facing a really dark time, as the breadwinner suddenly unemployed, and I felt like I really needed to feel that fear.

(Masochist.)

So my whole point here was that while the meds typically keep me above the pit of depression, I fall in every now and again. I turn sullen, very quiet, weepy, distracted, hyper-focused, unemotional. Yes, those are all vastly different things, and I cycle through them all at an exhausting, break-neck pace.

I can usually muster enough energy to fake it in purposeful areas: typically “at work” and “with the kids”. Which – God love him – leaves Bryan in the cold. I hate that I do this to him. As it is happening, as I’m turning from his embrace or I’m zoning out as he talks, I hate myself for being that way to him. It is such a vicious, awful cycle.

These things happen. There is no pattern to it, there is no trigger. You just have to hunker down and hope and fake a smile or two in the hopes that it will stick. Sometimes it does. Other times, it takes longer.

I was in the throes of a spell not too long ago. I sat at my desk in a quiet moment at work, watching an articulated mechanical butterfly beat its wings against the glass of a mason jar. It fluttered back and forth, both tethered and restrained, and I was so, so sad. Just lost in the despair of that butterfly. I was mournful of it.

Because I feel like sometimes it helps me when I hear other people can commiserate, I took a picture with Instagram and divulged my feelings.

Look, don’t even TRY to be as deep as I am, okay? You’ll probably just hurt yourself AS you fail.

As I usually do, I set the picture to feed to my Flickr stream, my Facebook wall, and my Twitter account.

And that’s when the magic happened.

Because here’s what came across on Twitter.

Oh, y’all. I’m sorry; I don’t care HOW depressed you are, you know what helps? 700+ replies of “HA HA, YOU LIKE BUTT!”

I just love you guys so extremely much and I wanted you to know how many times you’ve helped me out. This is just one of my favorite examples.