From my former blog All My Little Words on March 6, 2009 but has since been removed.
"Either you reach a higher point today, or you exercise your strength in order to be able to climb higher tomorrow." ~Nietzsche
Depression = Downer
So, the thing is, you see, nothing ever changes. My thirst for it never dwindles. It never stops pendulously dangling in front of me, the prize that is, goading me, deriding me in vain to get up. "What's wrong with you? Why don't you just get out of bed? C'mon! Tackle this day in front of you," it says. I have no idea why. The only thing I do know is that I just can't do much.
The prize, ultimately, is a life fulfilled. The prize is accomplishing anything on my 101, which really is only 39. The prize, in the simplest sense, would be to function. So why can't I do just that when, really, it's all I want?
I've exhausted my friends with my theories of my paucities, blaming much of it on familial history. To be honest, I've exhausted the idea that all this is to blamed on my upbringing. I've assiduously analyzed it, and while there's only so much to be said and I've said all there is to say, opacity proceeds.
I've become a pathological liar. I lie to friends and family. I tell them I'm pursuing a job hunt, going to the gym, working on a better me, when honestly I'm encased in my bed. I'm not particularly sad, not overwhelmed with sorrow or pain from the lesions of my youth, at least not consciously. It's just that I'm stapled here. (There are exceptions but more on that later.) I accomplish little, and so I lie. I lie because I feel like their support is fragile, like they'll give up on tiresome old me. Mostly that support is what helps me achieve what little I do. So I've lost touch with a lot of people; my aunt, my sister, friends, people I just don't want to lie to anymore. People I don't want giving up on me but who I believe are unable to put up with me, or it. So many people have their preconceived notions and prescriptions for someone like me. Do this, read this, watch this, eat this, drink this, and think this. There's a lot of think this. I've tried changing my thought patterns, it works for a week, but I always end up back where I started: in bed.
I'm not doing what I set out for myself because it's just too hard. Too hard and too much. I'm awful at explaining it, partly because I try to intellectualize it all the time, when it's so unimaginably, almost implausibly, simple. It kind of answers everything. But it is not something I like admitting to myself, because it wreaks of defeat. It is le D word. It is at the crux of it, reader.
I've never really respected depression. Possibly because I resent people around me who have it and haven't dealt with it accordingly or respected it. I resent it, contest the thought of it and am properly vexed by it. This aversion to depression is ubiquitous. Just the other night I was having dinner with my sister and she resisted the idea of my being on antidepressants for an extended period of time. She too believes depression is a cop-out. For whatever reason I was not blessed with the ability to shrug it off and work away my sorrows. Sister, who won't be reading this, what if taking more of it helps me accomplish things? What it helps me keep a job? Or graduate university? What if the little white pills helps me live normally without lying to everyone to let them think I'm living normally?
I've always rebuked myself for my shortcomings. "Why can't I just be like everyone else? How come it's taken me almost a decade to get a degree? How come I feel the innate drive of the keenest go-getter but never get past the preliminaries? What the fuck is wrong with me?"
Another reason for which I've negated this perpetual wet blanket is because, fleetingly, I can be the happiest, fun-est person around. I can make you laugh. I can be real girly and such a flibbertigibbet. I can passionately ramble on in jest about a celebrity I call my boyfriend and get really excited about things. Dogs, a good song, a new friend. I also seem to have the energy to make it to many movies and will almost always be game for a good catch up with a friend. None of this offers the slightest inkling of depression. It's not that through those moments I am actually sad and just being duplicitous, I am happy in those moments. It's the rest of the time that I feel handicapped... Interesting D trivia: Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller, Robin Williams and Jim Carrey all suffer from depression. These are people that make people happy for a living. I can sympathize.
I've been antagonized by le dark D for as long as I can remember, but alas, I might as well give in to it. It's not like I have a better alternative; everything's amiss and I just keep beating myself up for not being able to hop on the progress-happy bandwagon, so why not?
That's all I have to say about that.