My depression is still dogging me, not as heavily as it was but rather in waves of sadness and nights of obsessive thinking; my joints still hurt; I still haven't done any laundry and am now wearing mismatched socks; I'm still tired all the time; my bank account keeps overdrawing itself no matter how I try to juggle things; I'm still fat and uncomfortable in my own skin.
But you know what? I DON'T CARE ANYMORE. I'm going to smile and laugh, anyway. I'm going to pretend I feel good, and I'm going to enjoy whatever I can enjoy. I'm going to decorate the Christmas tree, no matter how much I hate the filthy stinking thing. I am going to cook Christmas food no matter how much I resent having to do it. I am going to set a festive Christmas table no matter how much I want to pound the forks into the wall and toss the glasses down the chimney. I am going to exude Christmas cheer over all and sundry even if it kills me.
It's not really that hard. I let people know that I'm still feeling a little crazy, so they won't be surprised when the mask falls and I start screaming and trying to stab myself in the eye with a Bic pen; but I don't let the being down get me down; I don't let let negativity dwell.
And when all else fails, I look at beautiful boys. Beautiful boys always cheer me up.