Happy Friday the 13th
Feb. 13th, 2009 05:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serafaeryI feel like I've been dealing with my depression a lot better in the past couple of weeks. I keep my eyes down, I forge ahead, I remind myself of the little beautiful things in the world to which I have access. I think of my few close, warm-hearted friends, I pet my cat, I try to eat something healthy. I treat myself to a soy latte and a cookie. I do okay.
It's still true, though, that I can't remember the last time I actually wanted to get out of bed. I do it because I must.
This includes weekends where I sleep in until 11:30am, or 2pm, or sleep all day long.
I am forced to congratulate myself for the tiniest things, like drinking a glass of water, or eating a piece of fruit, or managing to brush my teeth and wash my face before bed.
Depression is such a strangely invisible disease. I am endlessly jealous of, and completely disconnected from, people who move through life effortlessly most of the time. With something invisible propelling them that I do not feel. That I get only glimpses of; fleeting moments of ease, when breathing doesn't hurt, when the air feels soft and clear and nothing like honey or molasses.
Not interested in taking pills. Not anymore. I think there is an inherent acquiescence to suffering in a depressed person that allows me to avoid medication.
And those little moments when life doesn't hurt are so much more blissful than if I had that all the time. It's like heaven; little pieces of earthly heaven. I wait for them and long for them and cherish them and revel in them and feel so accomplished and grateful on the other side of them.
That feeling of waking up rested, energized. Not full of dread, but full of excitement and ideas for how to make the day more fun, how to make progress on projects, how to enjoy spending time with friends or a lover in new ways. That bouncy, dancy, life-is-okay feeling. Not overwhelmed and buried with pain and drudgery and burdens upon burdens, emotional, metaphorical, in the form of a filthy house or overridden rooms full of useless crap that is difficult to donate or throw away.
And then it's back to months of nothing but dragging myself begrudgingly through the hours between merciful sleep. Sleep is my only comfort, my only solace. It's all I want. Lately, it is less than comfortable there. I hope this means I get a fleeting bit of desire for life, soon.
It's still true, though, that I can't remember the last time I actually wanted to get out of bed. I do it because I must.
This includes weekends where I sleep in until 11:30am, or 2pm, or sleep all day long.
I am forced to congratulate myself for the tiniest things, like drinking a glass of water, or eating a piece of fruit, or managing to brush my teeth and wash my face before bed.
Depression is such a strangely invisible disease. I am endlessly jealous of, and completely disconnected from, people who move through life effortlessly most of the time. With something invisible propelling them that I do not feel. That I get only glimpses of; fleeting moments of ease, when breathing doesn't hurt, when the air feels soft and clear and nothing like honey or molasses.
Not interested in taking pills. Not anymore. I think there is an inherent acquiescence to suffering in a depressed person that allows me to avoid medication.
And those little moments when life doesn't hurt are so much more blissful than if I had that all the time. It's like heaven; little pieces of earthly heaven. I wait for them and long for them and cherish them and revel in them and feel so accomplished and grateful on the other side of them.
That feeling of waking up rested, energized. Not full of dread, but full of excitement and ideas for how to make the day more fun, how to make progress on projects, how to enjoy spending time with friends or a lover in new ways. That bouncy, dancy, life-is-okay feeling. Not overwhelmed and buried with pain and drudgery and burdens upon burdens, emotional, metaphorical, in the form of a filthy house or overridden rooms full of useless crap that is difficult to donate or throw away.
And then it's back to months of nothing but dragging myself begrudgingly through the hours between merciful sleep. Sleep is my only comfort, my only solace. It's all I want. Lately, it is less than comfortable there. I hope this means I get a fleeting bit of desire for life, soon.
