Spoiled for Choice

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.