July 09, 2001: sleepwalker, part 2
Depression's sneaky.
It creeps under the doorsill like a poisonous gas. It licks the edge of the countertop. It pretends it's a cat and it wreathes itself around my ankles.
Make no mistake, though, it is an invader. Though not an unfamiliar one.
Depression's greatest weapon is to make me believe that I am helpless against it. It whispers in my ear that I am not good enough, so why even bother to fight? It binds my wrists with cords as insubstantial as smoke. It convinces me to walk about in a half-somnolent state, telling me I can catch up on what I've missed later. It convinces me that lack of affect is better than feeling pain.
It softens all of my edges and cushions me in cotton. It's partially a state of grace and partially a luxury, to be able to not feel. And, oh, I have a gift for this. I have a gift for depression.
It is not a gift I want, or need.
And it is a struggle not to assign blame. I can see triggers so clearly from here. Feeling like I have no existence apart from my work and social life. Being unable to write. Feeling very unattractive for a couple of different reasons. Not having time to breathe, or pet the cats, or go for long walks.
There are people wherever I go. I don't do much alone these days--I never go out to eat by myself, or for a walk, or to a movie, and it's been over a year since I last went wandering in the U District or Capitol Hill. I am paralyzed by the fact that i have 8forgotten* what I used to do, by myself. I don't know what it was, but I miss it, terribly.
Depression makes the inside of my head fuzzy, makes me forgetful, makes me unable to deal with details nearly as well as i do normally. It makes me feel dumb, like I can't do anything right.
It tells me that self-destruction is okay.
And I know I am loved but it doesn't make any difference. I could have all of the love in the world directed at me and it wouldn't make me feel any better about myself--i'd just feel like i was stealing something I had no right to, or being demanded to give up things I very selfishly want to keep.
And, yes, i know i should do something. Anything. I know where the bottom is and it's not at all pretty. I know what I need to do and i know that it's going to hurt, agonizingly. And so I dither, and delay, and distract myself.
And continue.
"I have been in her house.
I have experienced her madness.
And I rejected the entire experience."
