Ramblings of the truly depressed (and insane)

I am so horrible with keeping up with things. I rarely remember to come to this site until I'm feeling down and need a pick me up. I forget that there are others here who might need some cheer. I feel so selfish now. Things get rough for me and I just hide myself in my happy little hole. I have almost no friends where I live. I left them all in Florida. And my best friend is in Michigan. I'm here in NC with myself, mom, husband, and sister in law. I have one friend here I've known since I was 11. He has a life of his own. A job, school, friends of his own. Instead of trying to make new friends, I just hide. I'm like a friggen turtle. All tucked up in my shell pretending nobody else exists. I don't think I've left my house to do anything but take my SIL to work. I sit in the same four wallas all day burying myself in playing with my baby and reading. I putz about on Tumblr, facebook and anything else that strikes my fancy. I drink tea and forget to eat. I know I'm starting to worry my husband. He isn't used to my low points yet. He gets really frustrated with me, and that just makes me feel worse. I swaer I'm going to get off my ass and do something about it all to no avail. I never actually do. I used to have so much drive and determination. I was going to write a book. It's gone nowhere. I haven't started one bloody line. I have so many ideas in my head. But as soon as I think I could pull one out and actually create something, I realise that I am just fooling myself. There's no way for me to be anything other than the hopelessly depressed woman who can't kick a smoking habit. Despite watching my grandfather die of lung disease. I don't like the way it smells, tastes, makes me feel. None of it. But I can't let go of it. I feel like it's a better bet than self harm. I've been down that road and I won't go back. For now I'm stuck with an addiction to the very thing killing the only man in my family (other than my husband) to actually love me. And food. Let's not forget food. I eat my emotions. And not in a healthy way. Nope. Fried chocolate covered bacon is what I crave when I'm feeling down. No carrots for this girl. Just completel and total SHIT. Which is how I feel after I eat it. Does that stop me? Of course not. A therapist would tell me it's because I was psychologically abused as a child. And that would be true. The people in my life who should have made me feel good about myself told me I would only grow up to be a useless fat slob just like them. My great grandmother died obese and her daughter had gastric bypass. So I'm the only fat slob left. Lovely. Such a great roll model for my daughter. At least she has my sister. Forever trying to improve herself, truly caring what others think about her. I could never de that for my baby. My life lessons will be along the lines of "Sure honey, but don't get the fat free. That's pointless and tastes like plastic". Don't think my husband would like this little gem of a journal post. He'd tell me my meds are failing me. Yup. But I don't want to change them. They keep the fibromyalgia at bay. They just don't seem to be keeping my mind in the same place. Stupid narcotics. I dream of a day when I can actually find a natural treatment for depression and pain. One that doesn't involve wheat grass or anything green. I just cannot handle that damn green taste. Stupid sensory issues. Wow. I've typed a lot. And none of it makes any sense whatsoever. All I see is a bunch of inane rambling. I truly am losing it. But who knows. Maybe I will feel better once all these thoughts are out of my head.