I’m having a bad day and it’s only seven thirty in the morning. Everyone gets bad days, I know, but it’s problematic when the bad days pile one on top of the other even when there’s nothing wrong. Especially when nothing’s wrong. You look at your life and point out all the positives and the only internal response is “so what, who cares, why bother?”
My emotions are basically absent these days except for the sense of rage that hovers in the background, threatening to jump out and down the throats of loved ones or the unfortunate cashier who looks at me wrong.
I don’t explode, of course, because then there’d be guilt which I’d carry eternally. I try to avoid giving my self-hate gene any more ammunition. But I’m in a “fuck it” state of mind and it’s making it difficult to function. I want to let go. I want to scream at the mail carrier. I want to kick the cat.
I’m angry. My depression often manifests in this way.
Self-care is hard when I’m like this. Getting up is hard. Getting dressed is hard. Doing anything but rereading the endings from old books is hard. I haven’t cracked a philosophy book in days. Haven’t showered.
I’m still doing some things. I’m still sticking to my skin care routine even though my brain screams at me that it’s pointless because I’m old, ugly, and pathetic. I’m still working on the book I’ve taken to calling crap. Because it’s not perfect and is therefore probably pointless. Nonetheless, I’m persisting. I’m leaning in. My inside voice is saying all the right things but it’s dripping in sarcasm.
I’m still writing blog posts to try and understand myself and clean up my thinking. I’m still eating three meals a day even though my eating disorder is telling me my life would get better if only I could lose ten pounds and how could I possibly expect to feel like anything but shit when I can pinch an inch on my upper arms?
I cleaned the house yesterday, and that’s a grudging win. I agreed to go on a vacation to a spa with my mother next week and that’s one too, even if I’m now panicking about what to talk about, and how can I hide myself away on a trip with someone else, and am I even allowed to smoke at a spa, and holy shit I’m going to have to wear a bathing suit.
But for days now I’ve mostly been about being angry, and sitting in my chair and burying myself in my e-reader.
I would like it very much if, when I’m like this, life would just pause for a bit. Give me time to wallow. Let me stew. Let me work myself out of this particular corner.
Life is not obliging in that regard.
Time passes whether I’m up or down. Hours and days tick by whether you’re participating in life or not. If you’re not careful, days turn into weeks, which turn into years and before you know it you’ve given over decades to your mental illness.
You have to choose to stay in the fight. The annoying thing is that you have to choose more than once. You have to choose over and over, every time something flares up and tries to knock you back again. It gets tiring and oh my god, does it get boring. I am so bored with sinking into a depressive pit yet again.
I give up sometimes, for minutes or moments or days on end, but eventually I come back. I used to take myself to task for the times that I quit but then I remember that once, even Buffy the Vampire Slayer gave up. She took a moment out. She beat herself up for it to until a friend reminded her that it’s okay to take a moment when you need it.
It’s okay to step back and pause when all you can feel is rage and enervation. It’s okay to take some time to regather your forces.
It’s an ugly game and I hate “fuck it days” but it’s better than not being able to play.