I’ve been a little quiet. But the truth is that this post has been hard to write. I’ve been sad. I’ve been sad for a frighteningly long time. In an absent, gray way. A deepening gray that is increasingly difficult to hide. Inexorable. Suffocating.
My psychologist has gently suggested I try antidepressants. Because apparently it’s not normal to be idly fantasizing about fatal car accidents or accidental overdoses. I say idly, because I’m not so far in the gray that I’m actively seduced by these fantasies. And they’re just that; fantasy. But overwhelmingly, my life feels meaningless and small. And very, very empty. And for the first time, I can really understand how a person gets to a point where nothing might feel infinitely better than the absence of everything.
So there it is. This huge word. Depression. Like a typed out label, stuck on the description of me. Defining. Deafening. I say this word a lot at the moment. Testing its shape with my tongue. Hearing the low, foreboding resonance of the “…de…” The uncomfortable pascals of weight behind the ‘..pre..’. The cruel sibilance of the “…ssion…” Surely this word isn’t me. It’s a word for someone else. Someone who is isolated and insular? Because my life is filled with joy and simple pleasure and wonderful lovely things, right? It was. It was. It *is*. But somewhere along the line I’ve lost the ability to connect with the joy and the pleasure the wonder. Those things offer themselves to me like hope. And I hold them in my hands and consider how beautiful they are, in theory. And how very lucky I am to have them. But I’m detached. I wander through my days, one after another, after another, and hope that perhaps tomorrow will be different. That the day after that will wake me up.
This post has been hard to write because every time I try, I cry. It feels like my throat is closing. It has been hard to write because it feels so banal. So melodramatic. So filled with pointless, pathetic angst. And it has been hard to write because writing it down makes it more real. And puts it out there. And I don’t want to be this person. This sad, frightened, gray girl. So the writing is acknowledgement too. That things must get better. Surely? Because next week I will probably start taking pills. In the hopes that they will boost my internal chemistry. In the hope that this is temporary. In the hope that I will be me again.
Aside: In a small twist of irony, a little under 6 years ago I started this blog as a prompt to get myself off my couch. In fact, the red couch avatar has always been a kind of metaphor for me, a reminder. So it’s faintly unsurprising that I’m back on the couch, so to speak. I just hope the next circle leads up, not down.