The problem with serious depression [well, it's not like there is any other kind of depression] is that it creeps along, taking more and more of the joy of life out of every day, hour and minute. Something as simple as loving to take a bubble bath late at night in oh so hot water, can become a chore in stead of the lovely sensual delight it once was.
Writing late at night to a lover so far away, becomes nothing but writer’s block and a feeling of emptiness. Where I used to have so many ideas, so many things to be say, and so little time to do it in, now I find only the cold and dark of night in the room with me.
All last summer and fall I redecorated my apartment. I had so much fun, but somewhere or another along the line, it all turned into nothing but a chore to clean. Now I know that can happen even when you’re not depressed. Women grow up cleaning, or I did anyway, and I’ll admit, it’s not my favorite thing to do. I do it because the alternative is too much of an “ick” factor. I like clean and tidy. But, even the joy of a clean room, fleeting as it might be, is missing.
All of these things can sporadically happen to any of us and it’s no cause for alarm. I know that. Which is why depression can creep up on you. I always say to myself, “oh this will pass. I’m just going through something now. It’ll pass”, and I go on about my business. Until somewhere along the line I wake up and realize that I don’t like anything about my life. I’m not angry about it. I’m not anything about it. I’m numb. I’m completely numb to my life and all my experiences “feel” the same no mater what I’m doing.
I think this has been hitting me since around Halloween time. Maybe it began before then. See, I just don’t know when it really began because I can’t distinguish events by emotions right now. And emotions are how we imprint memories. Without emotions, everything sort of gets compressed into one long day and an endless night. Hell, even sleep isn’t good any more.
There are times, I think I’m dying. I don’t want to die. I don’t think about taking my own life at all. But, something inside me keeps whispering “you’re dying”, in a real way not metaphorical. Of course, metaphorically that’s how it would feel to me–as if it were real. But, I’m so depressed, I can’t tell.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m mirroring a lover’s depression. And, I might be. But, it’s more likely that I think that in an effort to deflect onto him the things I should be looking at within myself. It’s easy to be all, “intuitive” and so close I feel what he feels. But, the reality is, that’s a cheap trick to look good to others, and yet mask my own troubles. I’m not consciously doing it, but I recognize the possibility that I am. Which only means, I’m ignoring my own condition, hoping it will cure itself.
So, we’re both depressed at the same time. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure it doesn’t surprise him either. There is a certain irony in our closeness and “mirroring”. It’s really good–no great–when it comes tom intimacy. But in that greatness of intimacy we feel both the good and the sad and painful. That’s not a problem really. It’s a part of the complete experience, which I wouldn’t trade for anything. But, it does reduce our ability to help one another when we are both in a deep depression.
I’ll be honest, I wish I could muster up some “Hey, notice me. Fix me. Help me.” Scream it to him. Scream it to anyone who will listen and understand. But, I don’t even have the energy to feel those thoughts, let alone act on them. He’s in his own space, and his needs are real and great right now. But, I’m not setting aside my own to please him. I just don’t feel like making it an issue. I don’t even have that much energy. My not involving him isn’t some kind of sacrifice on my part at all. It’s a complete disinterest in my own life.
The one constant thought in my head is “I want to be alone”. That’s all I seem to be able to focus on. My aloneness is my best friend right now. That’s not bad, as I’ve always liked my own company, but this time it is so severe. I’m not frightened. I’m concerned because I’m not frightened. But only concerned. I should be afraid of my lack of fear, or pain, or whatever. But, I can’t even muster up strong emotions about my lack of emotion.
That is very unlike me.
I’m seeing a therapist. Taking meds. Looking at my life. I’m doing all the things modern medicine and traditional therapy says I should do. I’m in there. Trying to have a break through. Maybe next week I will. Or next month. Or next year. It all seems the same to me at the moment.
I’m forcing myself to take a daily walk. Get out. See the world. The weather is wonderful and I should get out of the house. I know I should. I’m doing all the things I can think of, but I don’t feel anything. I guess I’ll keep on doing it til I feel it, but I wish I cared about it all more.
Posts
