I wrote part of this in response to someone asking about how to care for someone during a serious episode of depression. I think this sums up my entire life.
i just tell my mom to not talk to me. i live on leftovers and granola bars (mostly peanut butter Cliff bars). sometimes i eat a banana. if I’m in a really crazy mood, i’ll make toast. but that’s rare. i don’t answer the door. i don’t pick up the phone. because of that, i don’t order food.
she got a boyfriend to stay occupied. i’m happy for her. he’s nice.
that’s it. that’s life. i sit. i take my meds. i watch tv. i watch nothing. then flashes. flash flash flash of bad images. bad home movies. of my life. of me. in my past. i take more meds. i feel too much. but a vacancy is there deep within all around what is overwhelming me. and that vacancy hurts. and i feel the depth. a crevice in my chest i can put my whole hand through to caress my spine and rearrange my ribs.
sometimes depression hurts. it manifests itself. and i feel like i’m physically drowning. i feel the water rise up and down over and then just below my lips. my limbs ache. my mind tires. sleeping would make it easier but sleeping leads to nightmares. and morning depression. and morning depression is the worst depression. paralyzing sadness and fear coats my essence. essence sounds like a fake thing. i can’t describe it. it’s just, maybe, a paralyzing sadness and fear in every facet of me. every corner. outside and inside. in my mind and in my bones.
it’s the oddest thing. it is not rational. i am not rational. i am in me and stuck.
and if she does talk to me, she does set me off. because depression is anger towards inwards. and at any time i’ll turn it out if you press me to do things i really can’t do during states of my bad painful depression. it’s because i don’t want to be this way. i just am. i wish i wasn’t. and that frustration presses against the inside of my chest and puts pressure inside of my skin. it makes me want to cut myself out of me. i think about that all the time. i literally imagine doing that. it’s a scene out of American Horror Story. And it’s damn lovely.
i feel like i’m just living till the end. waiting to die. i don’t know if anyone feels the same about it. but that’s me at my worst.
nothing brings joy. not love. not attention. not sex. sex isn’t love then. not even God is watching. that’s the scariest part. being absent of God. it’s all numb. disconnected. i wonder if that’s how prostitutes get through it. just go through life as ghosts, numb as fuck to the intimacy and fruits of life sexually, spiritually, religiously, in partnership with others… to any emotions that would make life worth living. and it’s so very selfish.
Below is one of my FAVORITE songs. Listen.