I'm not going to mince words: I'm depressed.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in this headspace, and I am fortunate enough to be functional enough to work, but for the last year or so, that’s it. I feel like it takes most of my energy and will to just trudge from the apartment to the bus stop, endure the commute to the office, make it through the work day without letting my façade of humanity slip, and ride back home (which is invariably a worse) commute before the brain inevitably cries “fuck this”. I still have good days where I’m able to feign sociability a bit better, and there are days where I’m drained and foggy before I even get home, but for the most part, I consider myself lucky if I manage to do something with my free time other than lie in bed with my phone.
Most days I’m just tired; sometimes I feel a physical weight dragging my limbs, as if they were moving through water or my body is operating on a slower speed than the rest of universe. My apartment is a mess because I don’t have the executive function needed to finish the chores I start, and I rarely feel the presence of mind needed to partake in my hobbies. It’s often hard for me to bother with reading or watching TV, like whatever I’m supposed to taking in gets blocked out by the fog. It’s hard to review an SNL in this state and harder to write when you’re aware that most of what you’re putting out is the same old shit.
There’s also a running commentary of noise that plays in my brain. There was a recent episode of Bojack Horseman that did a good job of simulating what it’s like to have that voice narrating your existence, second-guessing each decision that you make every day and reminding you of every failing that you’ve accumulated over a lifetime. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I can distract myself from it, but on bad days it gets to the point where I just can’t enjoy anything.
I still eat three meals a day regardless of appetite, but I often don’t feel the pleasure I used to get from my favorite foods, or it takes conscious effort to finish my meal. I try to browse bookstores or record shops but rarely buy anything; the running commentary tsk-tsks me for spending money to get a brief endorphin rush when I can’t even pretend it will fix the greater malaise. Sometimes I feel like my motivations for reading or listening to music are less than pure, born out of a desire to impress certain people more than an actual ability to appreciate the creative work.
The good conversations aren’t happening anymore. I just don’t feel like I have anything to contribute to the discussion, and I’m mostly just observing or eavesdropping instead of being good company. There are times I’m lucid enough to seek company, but a lot of the time I’m so far into my own head that when I’m with a friend, I feel too scrambled to really articulate what’s going on, or don’t feel it’s appropriate to wade beyond the surface level stuff or the dam will break. When I’m especially low, I often don’t even bother reaching out; something in my brain tells me that I’m in my rightful place, they’re in theirs, and any attempt I make at crossing over is trespassing, and any attempt to bring them into my world just drains them to the point of resentment. Am I really connecting on a deeper level or am I just unloading emotional labour?
Dating is also out; I know I’m not in a good place to get involved with anyone, and I don’t really have chemistry with most people; this is something I’ve learned to live with, but it’s gotten to the point that whenever I start feeling the slightest bit of attraction toward anyone, I panic and either try to ignore it or douse the spark. I figure it’s hard enough pretending to be a human for the day-to-day existence without having to market myself. I’m a bad liar, and I probably won’t be able to disguise that I don’t have faith in the product I’m selling. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to share a life with someone; I just don’t feel like I’m capable of the work needed for a healthy relationship.
I know there are people that care for me, that even love me, but sometimes I really don’t know if I can really absorb or return it properly.
I went through another bit of a depressive patch during a particularly bitter winter a few years ago, but back then I still had interests and vague goals, and I could shift the blame somewhat on tight finances and a precarious work situation; now that things have stabilized on the work front it’s become more apparent that my current low spell is deep-seated. It’s jumping from treadmill to treadmill these days; I’m “continuing” at best, keeping a status quo that doesn’t necessarily bring joy or lead anywhere. I’ve mentioned a while back that I don’t feel the same magic I used to from Halifax; the potential and possibilities I used to feel have faded away, and the more people that know me around here, the more boxed into my routine and identity I become.
There are small measures I’ve been taking to try to fight against this void. I try to make sure I get a little bit of daylight and exercise during my lunch break, and I have a few people that I feel comfortable discussing my emotional state with when I’m capable of stringing more than a few words together coherently. I’ve conceded that this is a medical thing that needs to be addressed soon; as much as I’ve been researching the best possible way to go about this, though, I still hesitate to take this step.
I don’t know what would make me happy, though. I’m scared that the answer will forever be outside my reach.