Lately, I have very little energy to do anything because of the anxiety-depression combo dominating my mind, body, and soul. I reluctantly and miserably emerge from my warm cocoon of pillows and blankets every dark morning, so tired and empty that I skip breakfast and my beauty routine on an almost daily basis. I wake up with just enough time to get dressed, brush my teeth, put on deodorant, shave (a little), grab a water bottle, and walk out the door. And even still, I’m late a lot, because the truth is, nowadays, I don’t seem to care about much.
I get through the days, though. I smile, I laugh, I even enjoy myself from time to time. I’ve never been very good at being transparent with my struggles, at least not with the general populace. I guess it’s the others-before-myself side of me that makes me feel guilty for talking about how badly I feel. I assume others feel bad too and ultimately me expressing myself might make them feel worse. I wonder if smiling for them and making them believe I’m happy gives them hope that maybe they can be happy too. If it’s possible to say this without being a pretentious martyr, I figure if me dealing with my pain alone keeps people happy, it’s worth it.
I’ve spent so much time dealing with things on my own that I generally have a good idea of what my problems are. I’m depressed because the world is an awful place for humans and animals alike. I’m depressed because I feel like people pity-cheer me on as a writer because they know all it’ll ever be is a dream. I’m depressed because my youth is slipping between my fingers and I feel myself changing. My depression exhausts me and makes me want to sleep a lot. It makes me cancel plans because I really just don’t feel like I can leave the house. It reduces me to a shell who goes through the motions because it’s too weak to fight against the tides.
As bad as it is, I’ve lived with depression and have found that it comes and goes. I have good days and bad days, like most people. I was managing, or at the very least, dealing with it enough that I was still moving forward in life. But in the past few years, my anxiety has spiked. I’d always been anxious, but as a kid I just chocked it up to shyness and dramatics. I was never told that what I felt was real.
My anxiety, really, makes it all so much worse. Not only does my depression sap my energy and leave me at far less than my best, but my anxiety makes me feel like shit for it. I constantly feel like I’m not doing enough, like my lack of professional success and refined talent is due to me being a terrible person… like the apathy that slows my hand is something I bring on myself. It makes my mind race when my body is slow. What I’m trying to say is that it feels really fucking awful.
Even now I’m too exhausted to take this post as far as I’d like. This isn’t a plea for help nor a call for sympathy or praise. I’m not asking for anyone to thank me for talking about myself. Mostly, I just needed to talk about it with someone other than my partner, who has struggled to help me when I don’t even do a good job of helping myself. At the moment, all I hope for is that the will to live, which has pulled me from dark places before, burns in me again, because I’m tired of being tired and I’m tired of feeling bad about feeling tired. Mostly, I just feel bad.