It’s worse when there’s nothing to do.
I’ve recently begun to take ownership of my depression and
anxiety. I guess what I mean by that is that I’ve started to realize that I can’t
expect to find my way out of this sinkhole by myself.
If I have somewhere to go, I’m good. If I have somewhere to
be, a job to do, if someone is relying on me to show up and Do Something, those
are the days I can handle. Maybe it’s because I like to feel needed.
Days off are the worst. The great irony is that there are so
many things I want to accomplish in my personal life, but when I’m afforded the
freedom to do them, I just won’t. What I want is to learn to play the guitar I
bought in 1997. I want to learn to draw, possibly even paint. I want to record
voice-over reading interesting things. I want to write something worth reading.
What I actually do is none of these things.
I get stuck somewhere between the bed and the couch. I move
from one room to another without purpose, hoping that a little physical
activity will grant enough momentum to push through this invisible, impermeable
barrier between desire and action. Instead I find myself standing still in some
random place in my apartment. Not stopped, only . . . paused.
I convince myself that I’m fatigued. Maybe another nap will
help. Perhaps I’m undernourished, and what I need is another snack. I think a
good cry could wash away the emotional topsoil weighing me down, but I’m not
sad about anything. I could force a cry, but that feels like forcing myself to
puke when I’m just nervous instead of physically ill.
What’s confusing is how recently I had my shit together. My
days off were capable of being productive and stable. I could clean my home and
exercise without being scared to begin. I would cook varied and interesting
meals.
What the fuck happened?
There was no Event. No date I can point to and say this is when everything started to
dissolve. There may have been a moment when everything changed, but if so, I
didn’t notice at the time. Just a slow dissolve into this soft lump of a human
who can barely muster up the motivation to pet my cat.
Yesterday I admitted to my Lady Love that I need professional
help… just three short weeks after I finally realized it myself. Nothing worth
having comes easily, it seems. I’ve taken steps to set up a doctor’s
appointment, and a therapist should shortly follow.
I’m tired of my life slipping past me.
