There’s no drama associated with it. At least, closely associated with it. That I can pinpoint or admit.
There’s always Trump.
And my far-away sick friend.
But things are fine, up close.
I feel like I’m quietly going mad. I feel untethered. There’s nothing to blame it on, and several happy things to concentrate on, but…
I don’t think I’ve gone through this before without a some side of drama to blame.
That makes it a very lonely place somehow. And numb.
When people say, “How you doing?” or “How was your weekend?” I swallow a big hot ball of…something that tastes vaguely metallic. That could be the Prozac, though.
I stare at them, trying to figure out if I am really am standing in some other universe from them, but parallel enough to see and hear them. I know they don’t really mean to find out if I’m doing well, or had a good weekend, at all. But from where I’m standing, it’s such an irony.
I’m doing shitty. I had a shitty weekend. And the depression is stronger than the fact that I saw my college-aged daughter, went to a very cool surprise birthday party, got plenty of sleep and, whatever, things that make non-depressed people happy. They made me happy, too, but they didn’t make me not depressed. It’s like when people are audacious enough to keep living their lives when one of your loved ones has just died. You want to scream at them, “Can’t you see the coffin?! How could you ask me if I had a good weekend? Are you blind?”
No. They’re just being polite. And trying to figure their own shit out.
I remember telling my daughter when she was depressed once to please hang on — to please give me a chance to be there for her — and she did. Now I wonder how she actually accomplished that.
I had to REALLY talk myself out the door this morning. I walked to work because I thought it might make me feel better. It felt like a huge accomplishment, but it didn’t feel good for very long.
I can remember trying to escape my feelings at a very young age. I’d guess 7 or 8. I’m still doing that some 50 years later.
I’m trying to hold on. I’m riding this line of needing to get it all out and knowing that it will sound crazy. And worrying. Even to me. But I’m trying not to break the dam because, you know, I’m scared of what’s below those falls.