I seem to be the only person actively hoping that the Myans were right. A nice apocalypse would go down really well about now. In fact, couldn’t we just bring the schedule a little closer? Say, like, next Tuesday?
Facing ‘life as we know it’ or ‘the alternative’ (love a euphemism), why aren’t I embracing change? If I’m planning the destruction of my piteous being anyway, why not just sell the house and travel for thousands of South African Rands worth and then top myself. Even better, why don’t I borrow vast sums of dosh, live like there is (literally) no tomorrow and then send a picture of my chosen bottle of life-ending pills to my bank manager? Huh? Huh?
Why do people think that inviting me to parties will lift me out of the sads? Self: I feel like gnawing my wrists open and praying for Yahweh to stamp on my face. I know what I need! A room filled with strangers who want to get right off their narcissistic faces and ask me godawful meaningless questions like “how are you?” and “are you having FUN?” Do you really want to know? No! So fuck off.
There are lots of sad people out there. Lots. Was this always so? Have I just been a total arsehole for not noticing? And we all have names for deep black hole that we slide inexorably into: the black dog, The Nothing, the sads, the sea, the big blue, the wilderness, the darkness, the gray. Things get named. This interests me enormously. It implies a presence, a kind of physicality to what plagues us. We don’t name other emotional groups like this (do we? Not with a definite article, surely?) Which is comforting. Because it means it’s not ‘all in head’. If it’s named, it is. And so it isn’t just me. I haven’t made this up to get attention or to provide an excuse to lay about in bed all day. And so the naming makes me sigh a huge sigh of relief. This isn’t a figment. Make sense?
People don’t seem to react much to my profound statement “I have depression” (largely because of the melodramatic, mock-gothic tone I use – I’m still taking the piss a bit, in an effort to make it manageable.) However all of that changes when I idly suggest I might be pondering, in a most happily Plathian way, the most effective methods of making it stop. That seems to scare the crap out of people. I think I might have to reign back on that level of sharing.
Oh, and by the way, in case you’re wondering. No. This is not a cry for help. I wish it was. But it’s not. It’s just a rant. A vent. A whinge. When I start posting pictures of sad bunnies, you can start to worry.
The wind has been howling in Cape Town. For days. The violence of it makes me feel better. I like being shoved around on my forced marches (I’ve been taking forced marches, because apparently exercise helps). I like coming back looking like I’ve been in a blender. It makes my outsides look like something is going on, even if my insides are like a beige carpet. So I go outside. And take it.