just one of the ways

As I write this it's Thursday afternoon. The weather outside is beautiful - feels like in the 50s, you can hear lawn mowers running and kids playfully screaming and laughing. Me?

I'm in my room, writhing.

Here's what happened:

I saw that a certain artist whose work I enjoy was having a giveaway on a blog, so I clicked over to join the fun. Without even searching the site I knew what to comment -- that is, what exactly I'd choose with my gift certificate, should I be the winner -- so much do I enjoy this artist's work. Upon seeing certain pieces for the first time in real life, my breath was taken, so struck was I at how perfectly the art would fit my home & family. A few months ago I finally made a purchase, and then of course kicked myself for not getting those pieces sooner.

Back to the giveaway. Of course, an extra entry if you follow said-artist on twitter, which, of course, I already was. Just to make sure, though, I clicked the link to see that 'follow' was an option. I thought that was weird, because I KNOW I had already chosen to follow her. Simply to complete the instructions for the blog giveaway, though, I clicked on 'follow', and that is when I saw the message:

This user has blocked you from following them.

I've blocked people from following me on twitter -- specifically, people whose tweets are filled with profanity (and I'm a girl who doesn't mind the swears) or vulgarity. My own logic follows: What have I done?

I emailed the artist, identifying myself as a fan and owner of their work, and told them that I noticed I had been blocked from following their tweets, and apologized on the off-chance I had been offensive.

For a mentally-healthy person, this is where they shrug, say, "Huh," and move on with their day.

Not me.

No, I stew and I wring my hands and I send text messages to a friend who knows the artist personally. I check my email obsessively, hoping for a response. Recognizing that getting outside helps at times, I step onto the back steps, closing the door behind me. I sit down while my son is telling me that, "It's not a teeter-totter, it's a totter-teeter!" and my head is in my hands. I can feel the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze, a combination I like, but cannot enjoy because my emotions are out of control. I step back inside and take a look around -- my older kids have come home from school. They are lovely children. I have a wonderful home, a beautiful life, I recognize it, but my self-doubt has taken over. What do people think of me? What is the image I portray? I can't help but wonder what percentage of my rising rage is now from how pathetic I am, the fact that the whole situation is even an issue: I'm obessing about what someone may or may not think of me -- someone who has never met me. Someone for whom I am merely a customer and a name on their computer screen.

So I let my oldest know that she is in charge while I take a time out in my room to detail just a portion of how I am affected by depression -- that even with medication and everything just as I've always wanted it to be -- I stumble and I sink. It happens. It's who I am.

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post-write, pre-post update:

Not three hours after I wrote this, I received a very sweet & sincere email from the artist, who apologized for the mixup and asked for my twitter address so that I could be unblocked. I was very grateful and relieved, but physically exhausted and emotionally drained from the haunting of my own thoughts.