I can stay up and write all night, I really can, especially since I didn’t sleep at all last night and laid around for the former part of the day. But I must retire eventually, and I feel the need to split what I wrote into two parts.
These past few hours I’ve felt unsettled. Perhaps these two weeks were too good to be true. Productivity? A busy but fulfilling schedule? Classes I don’t hate? Being (kind of) on time? Being praised at work? Eating? Remembering my meds? Feeling like I have friends?
Who was I to believe I could keep up any of those things…to live any more than satisfactorily?
I am so tired and exhausted, and I had a scary thought today. What if I’m not truly depressed anymore, I just am stuck in the habit of not brushing my teeth in the morning and laying in bed and skipping obligations and not eating? Although it makes me wonder why I would purposely sabotage myself, there could be a chance this is true, is it not? I have complete control over whether or not I get out of bed. I just have to break a habit. …Simple?
I made muffins but I can never get them perfect like my mum can. I burnt the bottom just a bit, and I’m making myself eat it for no real reason.
The above is not a schedule any person who struggles with mental health should have, it is? I suppose even a regular person can’t technically be in several places at once as this graphic suggests I should be, and that I believe I can be. But hey Reader, please don’t tell me that though, okay? I’m not ready to accept it. Obvious things are not in this schedule, such as sleep, meal, friend time, shower time. The doctor. The therapist. Those things are also not listed, because not because I’m not doing them, but because I’ve cut them out. Perverse.
Yet I can’t put a finger on what I feel. Is it anxiety? Spiritual unsettlement? Paranoia? Anger? I am often angry. I am an angry person. This doesn’t mean that I go around yelling at people with a throbbing temple on my head 24/7. There’s probably some pretty understandable reasons for the deep seated anger that sits like a tumor in my soul. My mind frame is crooked on the wall in a way only the homeowner can be bothered by. In the past couple days I’ll be in the middle of something and suddenly think: “what am I doing?” This can be in the middle of mixing a color on my painting palette to wiping down a table at work to while I’m actually speaking, like asking a question in class. I’ll feel afraid for a moment.
Why don’t I listen to the doctor or go to the therapist? As I had mentioned before, I’ve gotten quite sick of it. But that has never been a good reason. Perhaps a real underlying cause is that I seem to believe this is how things will be. This is, at first face, sad. But, it is reasonable to get tired of war. I know I will end up with PTSD and battle scars anyway, so maybe it’s time to head home and retire this fight. I don’t feel like I’ve surrendered, but just that enough is enough with these endless, failing battles. I don’t feel as though I’ve surrendered to this illness. But if I did, so what? It’s strange how when we personify war, we talk about how we must keep fighting. But in the nature of real war, most can see the evil in putting people through these things, the inevitable loss, and the lack of any real winners in combat. Depression will never win, I won’t let it, but neither will I. I am the soldier in the jungle of Vietnam, a living zombie who is dragging his mullet behind him. Our legs are jello, and our commanders tell us to keep going, and we do, but what is the real point to it? There is no investment left in the fight.