Trigger warning (?): depression? I’ve never had to do a trigger warning before. Feels weird. But yeah, this isn’t a sunshine-and-smiles post. Featured image is unrelated to the rest of the post.
I considered not writing today.
I considered not doing Foxes on Friday tomorrow, even though I know it would cheer me up.
I considered shutting down A Sign Of Life, or at least letting it go dark for a while.
I considered letting another hour, another day, another week or month or year slip through my fingers, and I wouldn’t even try to close my hands and grasp it.
I’m considering leaving this post, letting it wilt away and eventually rot in the drafts folder, along with handfuls of other posts that need only a quick polish before they can shine.
I considered a lot of things.
The novel sits, untouched for weeks. The house is a mess. The lawn needs care, the dog needs to be exercised, and I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m dying. I haven’t slept well in days, and if it weren’t for my husband’s frequent reminder that we need to eat lunch and dinner, I would only be eating breakfast each day, if anything at all.
Each morning, it’s a struggle to make my legs move, to pull myself upright, and get out of bed. Usually the only thing that prompts me to do so is Artemis, loudly reminding me she needs to be let outside. During the day, it’s a wonder if I ever leave the couch without a mandatory reason to do so.
Yesterday, I read a post titled “Hiding. Don’t Seek”. While it was on a different subject, the title called to me, because that’s precisely what I want to do: hide.
I want to disappear. It’s every magician’s greatest trick.
Except I’m not a magician. Or even a Cheshire Cat.
The frustrating thing is, though, that not every day is like that. Saturday I was so bored I stood on my head to see if the view changed, but I was okay. Sunday I was angry. Monday I was okay, but I didn’t sleep or eat. Tuesday and Wednesday were awful. Today has been all over the place and it’s not even noon yet.
It says on my About page that A Sign Of Life is “a place for me to be me.” Except that’s not true, because there is so much I hide, so much I don’t want to be seen. And it’s not just from my readers, my friends, my audience — I hide things from myself, too. I want everything to be happy and sunshine and have everything be perfect, all the time, always. So I edit what I put online, I omit the dark thoughts (even here, I’m omitting, erasing, hiding), and I try to convince myself that I’m just having a bad day, and I’ll return to being happy tomorrow.
For a couple of weeks now I kept hoping; maybe tomorrow I’ll be okay. Maybe tomorrow I won’t hate myself. Maybe tomorrow I won’t hate everyone else. Maybe tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow…
But the tomorrow isn’t really better, and I only sink deeper, bogged down by my thoughts as my brain tries to sabotage itself.
Nothing you do is good.
Why try? Nobody is going to read your crap.
Name four people who want you around. Just four. See? Can’t be done.
You’re a pathetic, cowed, helpless shadow of a human being.
Gods, you’re hideous.
You can’t tell anyone you’re losing it. They’ll ignore you, or tell you to get help, or leave you or think you’re crazy.
This is a secret — our little secret. Just you and me.
These — among others — are the thoughts that have been consuming me. It brings me no joy to be able to relate to almost every comic, image, or article about depression that I come across.
The only difference is I haven’t been diagnosed. I don’t know what, exactly, is wrong with me, just that something is indeed not right.
So why not journal all this and shove it in a random closet where it won’t be found? Why publish online, where it will never be forgotten? Why expose the most raw part of myself — the part I don’t even want to admit to — so literally anyone can see it?
I don’t know, really.
Maybe I’m just venting. Maybe I’m just trying to stay true to myself; letting “me be me”. Maybe I’m sick of hiding, even though I still so badly want to disappear. Maybe I want to be comforted. Hell, maybe it’s a “cry for help”.
I’m not okay. I’m not a danger to myself or others, but I’m not okay.