I have no bed sheets on my mattress. Clean and dirty clothes are scattered throughout my bedroom. It feels like I haven’t slept in days. After ten minutes of cleaning, I had to stop. The mental exhaustion was setting in. It was 9:50AM when I finished the three fingers of pinot Grigio. Not even a cigarette helped to soothe me. Even the thought of taking a shower makes my body ache. The numbness is becoming all consuming. I feel like a scared, lonely child, sinking deeper into the darkness. All I want to do a sleep, but that’s only a quick fix. Now I just want to leave my house and disappear with nothing but the tank top on my back. This is my depression talking, it’s on full display. It thrives in turning me into this weak, little bitch, wallowing in random sorrow. I’ll fight it again, but for now I’ll take the L. I need to sleep. Even if it’s for an hour. I need some kind of relief.
The blue skies abruptly changed to a sorrowful gray, mirroring the darkness that’s consuming me in this moment*. I’m fighting back the hot tears that are determined to escape me; I don’t want to show weakness in front of strangers on this train. Bad enough I can’t stand when eyes are on me at any time, if I start the waterworks there will definitely be some concerned glances or people who just want to pry to see what’s making me upset.
It’s frustrating because I shouldn’t be feeling this way. Life isn’t perfect and can be problematic at times,
but it isn’t as awful as it could be. There have been incidents in my life that have been awful and I’m not experiencing those things now. That is something I should be thankful for, always. In my logical thoughts I know it’s only the stress and the depression that’s making things appear to be darker in my world, it’s just so hard to ignore such a dark cloud hovering above that doesn’t seem to be passing by anytime soon.
I’m not sure what else to say in this post. All I want to put out there are these feelings that come and go. I have my good days/weeks and my bad. My depression comes and goes whenever it wants. I truthfully don’t see a permanent fix, but there are ways to manage it. I just wish I could better manage it when it hits me out of no where. Depression is serious and unpredictable. It doesn’t matter where you are, what you’re doing or who you’re with. It creeps up when it wants.
* This happened at the end of the week last week. I’m just now finding the time to post it.
We were both fairly buzzed as we lied in bed with our legs intertwined beneath the covers. We held hands and talked for a while, simply being happy, laughing and present with one another. Somehow we reached the topic of former lovers and past relationships. Paddy named off some of the females he was with, where it went wrong and he never shied away from his own mistakes that caused issues. (Another reason why I love that dork. He doesn’t make himself look like some perfect person. He knows he’s flawed and doesn’t hide it.) Some stories that were being shared were either hilarious or completely mind fucked me because I wasn’t expecting to hear how some situations unfolded.
(I wish I could share them here, but I didn’t ask him if I could discuss the encounters and/or horror stories on my site. I’ll ask him later and, if given permission, post the stories on a future post.)
That being said, after our discussion, I began to think of something and I would like some opinions. Because we were both buzzed, him more so than me, should I have stopped him from telling me such personal stories? It may not be a big deal to some, but what if there was a reason why those stories weren’t shared when he was completely sober? I may be overthinking it too much because overthinking/analyzing is what I do regularly, but I’m genuinely curious to know what others would have done or not done.
I had a draft I was working on for a couple days explaining how much my mental health had improved. I was beginning to feel genuine happiness again, which is something I hadn’t felt in many years. The walls I’ve put up for so long that prevented me from letting people see me had finally been dismantled, stone by stone that’s been held together by concrete.
I was functioning. I finally felt human.
I hate to say that I will not be posting that draft right now because I have found myself slipping back into the depths of my sea of gray. I call it my sea of gray because when I think of the color, I associate it with numbness. That is what I’m beginning to feel…
When the numbness sets in, I become a recluse. I want nothing to do with anything. I simply exist. I feel there’s nothing in the world that’s remotely worth getting out of bed for. I know that’s not true. It just feels that way. That’s one of my worst feelings to experience. Next to the abrupt implosion within my chest that others like to call severe anxiety attacks.
A few months ago things had taken a turn. My depression and anxiety attacks had become a part of my daily life, again. I could barely function at work. It was ruining my relationships with my friends, family and my significant other. It was bad enough I was mentally drained, but throw insomnia into the mix and you have yourself a concoction of intolerable despair that not only can be damaging mentally, it creeps into the physical also. That may sound dramatic to some people, but it’s not when you’ve lived it.
I wish I could keep going and explain more on what I’m feeling and experiencing, but my mind keeps trailing off and I can’t focus anymore. I’ll have to come back and continue writing on this later.
I wake up every morning dreading the fact I have to waste another day of my one and only life doing something I really don’t want to do. And I get it, that’s being an adult. As an adult you do things you don’t want to do, that’s the reality, but when is it time to say enough? When is it okay to walk away in order to make yourself happy?
I had to leave my office for a couple of minutes with my large coffee mug in hand to get a breath of fresh air before I lost my cool in the midst of the work chaos. While I stood outside by the brook sipping my hot, liquid obsession, my eyes painfully adjusted to the natural sunlight of the cool spring morning. Once the pain began to subside my eyes glanced around at my familiar surroundings, absorbing all the colorful beauty that nature had to offer. All that was missing was a blanket to lie on and a book to get lost in. It was that moment that hit me with a number of thoughts, yet only one notably stuck out.
“Why am I here wasting my time, allowing myself to be miserable? Why can’t you quit and do something meaningful with your time while you still can?
I have heard so many stories of people quitting their jobs to fulfil their dreams, or to do meaningful work, but I’m not them. In my mind, if I do that I see myself failing. In order to succeed you have to fail a few times, blah, blah, but I don’t have the time to fail. I do not have the money to protect myself in case of said failure. Do I have a fear of failure? Sure! Who wouldn’t be nervous about failing? But I need a plan. If there is no plan in place, I am in freak out mode. I wish I could quit right now, be confident in putting all my energy into writing and hope for the best, but hope isn’t enough.
Where do people get their faith to take that big leap and bet on themselves? I know there isn’t a single definitive answer, I just long for the moment I figure things out because life is too short to be this miserable.
Note: This was more of a freewriting exercise for my sanity. At least it’s hump day.
It doesn’t matter if I’m reading a book, reading fan fiction, blog posts, or observing writing partners develop their storylines through online role-play, I always seem to find myself inspired and jealous at the same time. It’s so immature of me to feel jealous of others and their talents, but when I read the amazing work some people do I only end up becoming harder on myself. I begin to think, ‘You’ve been writing for years and you’re nowhere near as talented as they are. Quit slacking and work.’ I know I shouldn’t compare myself to others, we’re all in different stages of our writing, but I can’t help feeling frustrated with not being where I feel I should be by now.
What I can say is I’m glad I’ve improved in comparison to the writing I did five years ago. I was sifting through old documents on my laptop when I came across a file I couldn’t quite recall having. When I clicked it open and saw the first opening lines, I gasped and laughed of self embarrassment.
“I slowly opened my eyes. My vision might’ve been blurry, but when I looked around at my surroundings I knew exactly where I was. The IV drip, blaring sirens, monitors beeping, annoying the shit out of me. Yeah, I definitely recognized where I was. ”
Of course I read all twenty pages and cringed through the entire thing, but I was also proud of that little horror show. It brought me back to when I first started putting the story together. To me, the ideas were solid, they just weren’t properly executed at the time. With the practice that I have had since then, I could take the story into a more exciting direction and polish it up real nice.
I may not be where I want to be right now, but after seeing how much I’ve improved from that old story, I just need to keep in mind that not only do things take time, but it takes a lot of practice and a lot of reading.
Also, I honestly couldn’t have improved from where I was if it wasn’t for my writing partners. They are some of the best writers I know and with some of that jealousy comes that inspiration I mentioned earlier. My partners help push me to be better. Not only by encouraging me to continue writing over the years, but their continued support of me in making my ideas become a reality. Sometimes I feel they have more faith in me and my writing than I do. I appreciate it more than they could ever know.
There are moments when I sit in front of my laptop, or stare at my journal, for hours before a full sentence has been completed. All I want to do is transfer all my thoughts into words. It shouldn’t be this complicated. It is almost to the point of infuriating. I feel like I have to beg my own brain to work with me. How ridiculous is that?
Truthfully, as I really think about it, it could be my depression making an attempt to crawl its way back to the front lines of my life. The more I think about it the more I realize writing does become more challenging for me when depression is involved. The joy I feel when writing quickly diminishes, apathy abruptly sets in, then it cripples my mind to the point where physical symptoms emerge and it’s literally painful to get out of bed in the morning.
I truly hope that isn’t the case. I really don’t want to deal with it, again. I cannot allow depression and anxiety to dictate my life anymore than it already has. Fifteen years of feeling like a prisoner within my own mind is long enough.