Struggling with depression lately. Of course as soon as I had the courage to call myself “a person that occasionally struggles with depression but is no longer ruled by it“, my depression shouted: “SCREW YOU! I AM YOUR RULER.”
Everything feels so hard to do. It takes ten times more effort than normal to do even the littlest things. And when I do them, it’s like I am a joyless thing. Just doing but not being. Other days I feel too much. I’m all feeling and no doing. I don’t know what to think of myself when I get like this. I don’t make sense.
It’s been pouring all day, and I’ve been sick. I just got back home from a vacation that I took for my birthday. To my dad’s property in rural Florida. I’ve written about it before, but like I said… it’s so hard to write right now. I can’t bring myself to say a thing about it other than it happened. I went. I came back. It is raining.
Depression makes my life feel like short sentences of exposition. The rhythm disjointed and jarring. At my dad’s property I felt elongated and timeless, allowed to sit in front of the fire for as long as I needed analyzing everything I did or did not feel. I have returned to the real world, where there is no time for such luxuries of intrapersonality.
It is raining. I have a head cold. Two hot coffees and one hot tea. Books or TV. Sit down to Scribophile, do some moderating of my blogger group. No energy to read others’ posts. Try to read one instead. Just one. Better than nothing. I had logged onto Scribophile hoping for the energy to do critiques I owe, but it’s not there. After I publish this blog post I’ll return to the couch with some soup. My tenses are all off. It’s just one of those days.
There are things I have done I can be proud of. An additional 23,000 words in my novel since the beginning of December. Even more words than that in critiques of others’ novels. But it’s never enough. The finish line is a blur in the distance. A dream. There are times that I can enjoy this journey, but then there are times like now… like how I’ve felt for the majority of this year so far. What kind of writer can’t even enjoy writing? What kind of person can’t even love what they love? And not because they don’t love it but because their brain is broken?
I’m not sure what else there is to say. I try to make myself write when I’m depressed, but it comes out like this. A wet blob on paper. It’d smear if you applied any pressure to it. It’d go meaningless. Ruined.