I’m trying, darlings, but I feel like I’m treading quicksand.
If I don’t seem my cheery chatty self lately, know that it’s not you; it’s me.
Dealing with depression is, well…. it’s hard. My apathy levels are off the chart, and when some smartass with a tri-corder tried to take a reading on my gloominess and despair, the damn thing started making rapid beeping noises and then blew up in his hands. So then he tried to measure my self of self-worth (it’s like taking your pulse only more invasive, darlings — I don’t recommend it) he was alarmed when he couldn’t find any.
When he tried to address my apathy, I tried to explain that it’s not that I don’t care per se; it’s just that I can’t be bothered.
I’m overwhelmed — just by life — and if you have ever felt that way, then you know just how I feel. It’s awful. It makes doing things that you usually enjoy — things that bring you happiness and diversion — seem like a chore. It makes socializing — even on the interweb where you don’t have to leave the comfort of your home (or even put clothes on, for that matter — in fact, in some cases, I understand that’s preferable) — feel like going for a job interview, or having to give a speech in front of a group of angry strangers, or, or… well, insert painful social experience here. I haven’t seen any friends for longer than a few minutes in over a month. And when I have, I’ve been quiet and awkward and wallflower-ish (yes, it’s a word now, get over it). And does that sound like me at all? NO it does not.
All the things that I know I should do, I just can’t bring myself to do. I can’t call a friend, because I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve discovered that depressives (like myself) are almost like drug addicts, who are always talking about being high, about getting high, about how wasted they were, etc…. whereas depressives just want to talk about how depressed they are, how hopeless it is, how frustrating it is, how they just want to die.
And I hate that. I don’t want to be like that, and so I can’t call a friend, because the very thought makes me sick to my stomach with self-loathing.
So if I disappear for a while — keep a candle lit for me or something — I’ll be back, I’m sure.
I may just have to let Jessica out of the basement and hide behind the slimy, mossy, creepy residents of Bayou Bonhomme.
That might be easier, I don’t know. In the meantime, I’m sorry for not being more encouraging, or not being able to keep up with reading. It seems horribly unfair of me to ask people to read what I write if I’m not able to always return the favour. (See how quick I am to find yet more fault with myself? God, I’m pathetic.)