Not My Cheery, Chatty Self

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’tย 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.)


14 responses to “Not My Cheery, Chatty Self

  1. I don’t “like” this (stupid ambiguous “like” button), but I understand. You are an incredible writer, and I hope for my own selfish sake that you find a way through – if you write it, we will read. You’re awesome, Helena!

    • I understand what you mean, darling, and I thank you for your encouragement. I’m trying to “fake it ’til I make it’ and hope that I can somehow prime the pump of my happiness. It sometimes feels like I’ll feel this way forever, and then I start down a train of thought I’d really rather avoid.
      Jessica says we get to see the rest of Leroy’s vision tomorrow.

  2. This just might be the medicine no doctor could prescribe. You have called out to your writer friends and we are talking to you. Hang in there. You will be able to get out of the well you fell into. And when you are ready, there will be many hands reaching down to help pull you up.

  3. Keep your fabulous head up. A depressed dilettante is better than no dilettante at all–but I do hope you kick the gloomies soon. Jessica’s particular brand of dark might be just the thing.

  4. I hope that you feel better soon. I understand what you mean. I have also been going through–not sure what to call it. A funk? I have no desire to do anything, and the things that I usually find interesting are not calling to me as they once did. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.

    • Thank you Ionia. I direct most of my ire at myself — it feels like an utter betrayal that my own mind; my own body is doing this to me. (Not unlike how you must have felt dealing with cancer — not to be insensitive — but I feel like this IS trying to kill me — I’ve had those “this is NEVER going to get any better, why should I keep living for the next XX? years like this?” thoughts)
      Why would my own mind do that to me???
      ARGH.. sorry.. crying again.

      • I understand. I know that gets over used but I really do. It dies get better but I get what you mean by feeling betrayed by your own mind. Sending you strength and well wishes. Things WILL get better and then this will just be a memory of another thing you have survived.

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