So, there comes a time when you realize that the term, “fake it ‘till you make it”, is a bunch of cow patties. You can’t just keep covering up the truth with a fake sense of happiness and a painted on smile. Sometimes, you need to take action and do something.
Well, after about an 8 month in-depth study in depression it was brought to my attention that it may be a good idea to admit I was depressed and to start doing something about it. If realizing you have a problem is the first step to a recovery, then at this point in time I was still trying to cure H1N1 with a voodoo doll. I was far from being reasonable about my condition, let alone accept that it was something that needed to be fixed.
I completely enjoyed walking around the house pouting. Ignoring emails. Crying at various times throughout the day and refusing to change out of my pajamas for several days at a time.
Alas, my comrades found a clever way to move me from the dark world that even Emo-gothic-vamps would have second thoughts about entering, and move me into a more sociably acceptable level of crazy. They recommended I join a knitting group.
Now, while most people these days are checking into rehab for anything from smoking problems to anger management, the original behavior improvement group has always been the knitting group. No other place can you learn quickly to seat right, speak softly and behave correctly, then when you are surrounded by a group of women with sharp pointy sticks and enough string to wrap you like a mummy.
It took a moment to find a group near me. As wide the world may be on the web, when it comes to knitting groups it can still feel like trying to find a needle in a hay stack. (Note to others- anyone who still insist on hand stitching near piles of hay should seriously be looked at by a mental professional).
Well, my search for a local stitch and bitch group did reap its reward in finding a knitting group right in my area. In fact it is right down the street. Who knew recovery could be so close.
These chicks with sticks meet twice a week at two different locations downtown. I won’t go into any details about its members, (that is until one of them becomes extremely famous and I can get paid selling exaggerated stories about them to the National Inquirer.)
Despite my disapproval of the whole idea of going to a knitting group for therapeutic purposes, I decided that before I could triumphantly dismiss the whole thing as a failure I should first give it a try.
The first meeting was as most first encounters go for me. I was exceptionally quite and reserved. I spoke when I was spoken to and rarely stated my opinion about the subjects being discussed. I sat, listened and knitted. While everyone else was drinking tea or coffee, I sipped on my hot chocolate. Near the end of the meeting I did manage to get some talking out of myself, but still kept very reserved.
Overall, I felt no better going then when I did just staying at home. It wasn’t a bad meeting. It was just a meeting. I felt the way I felt when I transferred schools mid school year. Everyone had developed their own cliques and I was the lone student sitting in the back of the class.
Because of my feelings about the first meeting, I was not looking forward to a second round of it. But leave it to my hubby and his cute smile to win me over to the idea of putting myself through another round of the Breakfast club. This time it wasn’t as bad as the first. There was daylight for one thing. It was the Sunday meeting that met in the afternoon as opposed to the Thursday group that met in the evenings.
I found myself a bit more interested in the activities of the other women knitting. I was listening to conversations more intently and finding myself, agas!, actually enjoying what I was doing.
I’m still learning to put faces with names. Mainly I remember people by the project they are currently working on. God forbid anyone start a new project anytime soon or I’m totally screwed. I’m still not sure of the long-term effects of group knitting, but for now this activity is getting me out of the house and allowing me to socialize with more than just The Boss on Mafia Wars.
So, here I am, at the start of self-recovery. Pulling myself slowly out of my vat of depression one stitch at a time. Wish me luck.