(First of all, you probably shouldn’t even be reading this. And I probably shouldn’t even be publishing it. It’s depressing and there is a lot of cussing. Am I really going to publish it? I don’t know. Probably. Because my blog is about my life and this depression is part of it, unfortunately. Also because I have CDD (compulsive disclosure disorder)(a/k/a compulsive honesty disorder), which is probably why I’m a terrible lawyer and also why my sister has to talk to me about “boundaries” sometimes….whatever)
Here’s what I want to do right now: NOT WRITE.
Here’s what I need to do: WRITE SOMETHING ALREADY.
I’m “solving” this problem by dragging myself, kicking and screaming and moaning and whining, here. To the blog. To fucking write something.
Except, as it turns out, I’m not “solving” anything because I just this minute figured out that the Not Wanting To Write is not about writing, per se.
It’s about everything.
I don’t want to write, I don’t want to finish the filing that I started 3 days ago (I have the pretty files and everything, but I’m stuck), I don’t want to talk to anyone (I’m grouchy and bitchy and depressed and I don’t want any advice from well-meaning people + “NO, I DON’T HAVE A JOB”), I don’t want to read (because once I start reading I start thinking about all of the books that I purchased but haven’t read yet (books about writing, of course…), I don’t want to work on my online courses (because then I might finish the courses and then I really have no excuse but to do my thing if that is what I’m going to do, which I don’t fucking know), I don’t want to go anywhere (not even out of my bedroom to our rooftop patio, which is awesome), I don’t want to clean house, sort out my closet, deal with the extra stuff in the garage, clean up my office so I can actually sit at my desk (cuz then I would probably have to write….or something worse), I don’t want to go to the health club (why break tradition?)(+ people = eek), I don’t want to ride my bike (see earlier blog post), I don’t want to eat anything that isn’t chocolate, I don’t want to see a movie or watch TV, I don’t want to find a doctor (for my gastric issues)(even though it is really getting bad and is partly why I don’t want to leave my house), I don’t want to talk to my insurance company about the $600 mammogram that they apparently don’t cover (since when? total bullshit.) or anything else (because they SUCK and I pay $478.00/month for coverage, have a $3,000 (yes, three THOUSAND dollars) deductible, PLUS co-pays AND FUCK YOU PEOPLE WHO DON’T THINK WE NEED TO FIX HEALTH CARE….assholes.), I don’t want to deal with my attorney registration issue because I fucking hate that you have to pay for the “privilege” to practice law (which SUCKS) after you’ve already paid for law school and continuing legal education and malpractice insurance and, and, and, I’m not even practicing, I don’t want to make my fingernails/toenails pretty (even though they look like shit and they usually always look pretty, except for now), I don’t want to try to find a therapist (see insurance issue above + fear of opening the floodgates), I don’t want to reply to emails from nice people who care about me (because I don’t feel worthy of being cared for and I’m tired of being pathetic), I don’t want to deal with the leasing company about the fact that our lease will be up soon (because the woman is a raging bitch and I know it is going to be unpleasant, to say the least), I don’t even want to get the fucking mail.
I don’t want to do anything.
I don’t even want to have sex. I know….?
And this is what depression looks like, friends.
(and yes, I’m using the ugliest color I could find to symbolize depression…)
I have no interest in anything. I’m fucking tired all the time, except when I’m exhausted, which is worse. I’m also lethargic. My hair is falling out. I’m not sleeping well. I can’t concentrate. I’m anxious. I’m distracted. I’m sad. Everything seems overwhelming.
The worst part about depression is that it’s impossible to explain. There is no reason “why” I’m depressed. I can’t point to some pivotal thing that “caused” me to fall into this fucking abyss of gloom. I wish I could, believe me. There is nothing worse than trying to explain depression to someone who has never experienced it. Because it sounds like something I made up to justify my laziness/my weight/my ugly hair/my avoidance of people. And I often feel judged, which leads, of course, to bitchy defensiveness. Which is no fun for anyone. Nor does it help the situation.
Depression is real. And it is sneaky. And it sucks.
They say depression feeds on itself. And it’s true. Because on top of the depression itself, there is the shame of having depression – a (gasp of horror) mental illness. And the guilt around not being a better/stronger person. And the fear that this will never, ever end. And the regret about all the time I’m losing to this thing, this illness that is stealing my life one day at a time. And the loneliness, even when surrounded by people who love me.
You know how it feels when someone you love dies, and you grieve and you keep running memories of that person through your mind because you are so very afraid that someday you will forget something important? Like what he looked like. The sound of her laugh. That he loved peonies and country music and german chocolate cake. That she watched Jeopardy every day and her hair was always the same shade of red and her skin was beautiful, even at 89. That she worried about the weather in Zimbabwe and always wore the same perfume and loved Scrabble. The way he was so dramatic when he sneezed.
That is how this depression feels to me. I’m so afraid of forgetting who I am when I’m not depressed. I don’t want this to be my life.
p.s. I warned you not to read this! FYI, no, I’m not thinking about cashing in my chips and going to that great chocolate factory in the sky. No need to call the authorities.
p.s.s. And yes, I’m going to get some help.