Yesterday was Wicked Wednesday, but I’m feeling pretty listless. If I were to choose a sin today, it would be sloth. I mean, I’m late to my own blog. I had to force myself to show up, and I showed up late. To be honest, I’ve fallen into another depressive bout the last few days, and it’s been hard to shake. To my friends and family: If you’ve tried calling or texting, my phone’s been off because that’s what happens when I get like this.
I’ve still been attempting SADIM (Story a Day in May), and I wrote 4,000 words a couple days ago. But I couldn’t write yesterday, and writing today has felt like trying to break into a fortress with a toothbrush. I don’t even understand that description myself, but I’ll leave it there to show you how strange I get when I feel this way.
Last night I tried to journal about it, but the words wouldn’t come. Just this vast emptiness, that’s all. Not even a desert, because there’s life in the desert. Not here.
I’m exaggerating in an attempt to understand, but my hyperbolic posts aren’t lies. Even if I don’t understand it, it’s there. Even when I don’t understand what I write, I’ve written. Even when I want to give up, I stick around. Just…around myself and Topher only.
This will pass, as it always does. The tide’s high now, but the moon’s still up there helping the water to retreat eventually. It will retreat, eventually. When I get like this, I speak in metaphors that give me dry mouth and migraines. I keep speaking, but it only makes it worse. I keep writing hard and clear about what hurts, just like Ernest Hemingway said, but it’s never as clear as I intend it to be. Depression is a fog I wade through like waist-deep water, except it’s everywhere, all around me, and I’m drowning in it. Fog is water in air, and if everyone else can breathe it, why can’t I? I breathe it like I’m supposed to, but I’m still drowning despite my attempts to live.
I’m not sure how to end this post. It’s not one I would usually write, given my current state. But here it is. I’ll just leave it here. Then I’ll go into the kitchen and get a snack. I’ll put my feet up and turn on Netflix. When it asks me if I’m still watching, I’ll say yes. When it asks me if I’m still watching, I’ll say yes. When it asks me if I’m still watching, I’ll say yes. Then I’ll go to sleep fitfully as the sun rises and sleep walk, waking just as fitfully on a different surface than I’d fallen asleep on. I’ll go into the kitchen. I’ll get another snack. I won’t be able to articulate what’s wrong.
It’ll pass just as oddly as it came, and I’ll be left with an uncanny kind of happiness that comes from finally sleeping well and getting things done that I was previously unable to. Everything will be okay again. Just not yet.