I’ve written before about my rendezvous with depression, my image of it as the Grim Reaper. He seems to be back, wanting to play, even though he and my mind never play nicely with each other. I suppose that’s his point.
Lately, it feels like like I’m gripping the edge of some big hole or a deep well. My feet keep slipping against the wall and I know
when if I fall, he’s going to win. I don’t have time for this right now. We can’t add this to our myriad of current issues. I’m trying to keep moving, keep my head above water but I’m getting tired.
I’m doing the usual, forcing myself to get up in the morning, accomplish whatever specific tasks are in front of me. I’m staying quiet and somewhat to myself so I’m not spewing cynicism at worst, and overwhelming apathy at best, all over those around me. I don’t want to be a person who sucks all the energy and happiness out of the room, like a real life dementor. Still, at other times it’s astonishing, and a little concerning, how easily I can separate from myself during my interactions with people. I go through the motions like a robot, throw out the necessary one-liners of easy sarcasm so all appears perfectly normal, while in reality, I’m barely even present.
But I am making an effort. I managed to go for runs several times this past week. I know how beneficial that is in keeping my uncooperative mind on an even keel. So, I’ve forced myself out there if for no other reason than to lessen my brain’s ammunition at night when it inevitably begins listing all of my shortcomings, telling me how if I really wanted to feel better, I’d do this or that, relentlessly insisting normal people don’t feel this way. The silence of nighttime is utterly deafening and I dread it the entire day. But I’ve made myself run in an attempt to stay one step ahead of this and last night, after years of running and having never had this happen, I actually fell on my last mile, when of course I was at my fastest pace. One minute I was up and the next, I was skidding across the asphalt. In retrospect, it was truly the perfect illustration.
And people, presumably with good intentions, want to know ‘why, what’s wrong, don’t you want to talk about it, talking about it will help.’ If I could define what ‘it’ is exactly, talking about it probably would help. But I can’t define it and I can’t fix it and that inability feels like a failing on my part. People’s questions and expectations feel like pressure, and they’re pressures I can’t meet or frankly even handle right now. I really just want to be left alone. However, I know, I know, I know there’s nothing healthy about cutting myself off from the world, no matter how appealing it sounds.
I hate this feeling. Hate it. It’s ridiculous and it’s weak. And I suspect it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But I’ll be fine. I know that. This post wasn’t actually supposed to read this way. I anticipated working something out in my head while I wrote it, ending on some marginally positive note or reaching some conclusion. I also thought I’d write it better. But instead I’ve merely spewed out cynicism and apathy. And it’s nighttime. Great.