I’m feeling dark.

I used up too many spoons yesterday, a potentially fatal mistake when you’re deep in depression’s grip. It was my son’s twentieth birthday, however, and there was up to be gotten, preparations to be made, food to be cooked, and people to be interacted with. For hours.

All the energy and then some got used up which means I don’t have it to fight depression today, which means the walls of the pit I am currently in feel like they’re crushing me.

And I have other posts to work on and I don’t post on Thursdays but I feel incapable of communicating this to my friends and family because their reactions will be smotheringly attentive, at least at first, and with that, I simply can’t deal.

Sometimes just ranting into the ether is enough.

And, I’m tired. This bout of depression is stretching on and reminding myself that it will eventually turn around is becoming less and less effective, even though the intellectual part of my brain telling me it will pass is right. Plus, part of me doesn’t really care enough about anything to bother communicating substantively with them.

The deadness of depression. It is so tricky and difficult to convey. It is not a sadness or a grief or a despair. It is not sorrow. Those are for earlier on. It is an utter emptiness. A supreme indifference that haunts most moments which almost sounds like it’d would be okay expect it is the absolute opposite of contentment.

It gets difficult to be in your skin.

But I have other posts to work on; thoughts about this and that, a couple on eating disorders, a piece of mediocre poetry. I can’t remember much more about them, or about anything I’ve posted of late, or what I was reading in the newspaper this morning about something or other.

Memory acquisition goes when you’re depressed, too.

All in all, it is not a state to be recommended.