The Other Side

I half-made oatmeal cookies tonight.  That is, I mixed all the ingredients, put one batch in the oven, took them out fifteen minutes later, and completely lost interest in finishing the process.  I stood in our tiny kitchen, feeling slightly dazed and foggy, wondering vaguely why I had even thought to do something as ridiculous as making cookies that I don't want to eat, Alix doesn't want to eat, and that will inevitably go stale over the next two weeks.  Lethargically, I swiped at the counter with a sponge and clumsily washed the spatula.  As I put it on the drying rack behind me without looking, it knocked over a glass that shattered all over the floor.  I promptly burst into tears.
It was a glass.  It was a glass that Alix and I bought in a set from Etsy in what feels like an alternate life.
As I started to pick up the thick green glass shards, I did so with questionable carelessness.  Did I want to hurt myself?  Why wasn't I doing the responsible thing, picking up the shards with a paper towel and then bustling out the vacuum cleaner to finish the job properly?
Why was I sitting on the floor, collecting glass shards in my tightly clenched fists, choking over my own tears?
Because the other shoe has dropped.
This is the other side.
This is where all the running, running, running in the world cannot, will not, ever, get you out of the hole that depression digs for you.
This is the other half of me.
My diagnosis.
My label.
If you are me, this is the only side you see.
Still, I dutifully swallow my pills, ignoring the haunted, bloodshot eyes staring back at me in the speckled bathroom mirror under the fluorescent bulbs.
This too shall pass, I tell myself.  Yeah, well, now would be nice, I say back.
Here I am again.
Waiting.