Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Viable sadness.

I'm making a real effort to document my mood and process today. I keep being distracted by youtube videos - and you know how infinite that black hole is. . .

I didn't go into work today.

I had an upset stomach overnight, and I woke up depressed and despondent.

I slept most of the day away.

I got up, had lunch, napped, and around diner time took a walk, which helped. I got some air and some sun and it lifted my mood a little.

I started my stronger dose of anti-depressants today. It should take a few weeks for me to see a difference - what that difference will be, I don't know yet.

Today was hard. I was just - it was all too much.

Whenever there's discussion or movement around my being medicated, there's a lot of stuff that goes on with me. I still have a fundamental issue with needing medication to function. My brain is, arguably, me. It's all that I am. If I were robocoped tomorrow, my brain is all they'd need. This brain of mine, everything that I am, has a default nature. And this part of me that is sensitive, and caring and steadfast, is also desperately sad and on a basic level, has little desire to be alive and part of this world.

I think there's more to it than that. Sometimes I describe my depression as a demon, or some type of leech on me. It's a disease. It's traumatic. But because of the way my brain works, with language, with being creative, with an flare for the dramatic, it's like a part of me sees this as an isolated, internalized plague. It's something I survive, it's a pox on me and my house. But it sometimes feels like something I also deserve. I can easily slip into some type of folkloric explanation that in a past life I was someone terrible. That this is now the remnants of pain I've caused others. If karma exists, what kind of a fucking shit was I in a past life? Seeing it as a curse on me, is almost easier to accept, and more comforting than thinking about my broken brain.

I re-read things I've written, and I clearly romanticize my depression. I don't mean to. It's not fun. It's not interesting. It doesn't add to me in any way. The only thing I can possible take from depression is a greater sense of empathy. But who gives a shit, really? I try and describe things as best I can but language is limiting.

You know when you're crying, intensely about something? You're sobbing. Your dog died. Your grandma died. You were dumped and shamed. You're sobbing, and you're in your pain, and for one brief moment you're purely in the act of sobbing without really being aware of what started your crying fit. Sometimes I feel that way. Like I should be sobbing, that I want to let go and release it all, but instead it's all caught in my throat. And instead I feel that I don't have a viable reason to be sad. To be devastated. I'm just a sad fuck. Just someone who is bad at life, and whose brain wants nothing more than for me to just quit. This is my default nature. This is my baseline.

My brain is a jumble today. I'm tired. I'm so tired. I want to sit in a field of tall grass and hear nothing but the wind.





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