Depression is a bitch. I don’t think anyone is going to argue with that. But it seems to me that there is “depression” and then there is “depression.”
Am I depressed (at this particular moment and/or generally speaking)? Yes. Do I have any particular reason to be depressed? Not really. I just am. And it’s easier to write it out than for me to actually speak about it with someone. Recently, despite all that I have in my life, I find my moments when I feel happy (genuinely happy) become farther and fewer between, and that concerns me a great deal.
I honestly have no way of knowing about when my bouts might strike. But when they do, oh man, it’s the mother of all backwards roller coasters. The more I struggle to try to fight it, the further I normally find myself sinking into a bottomless chasm of bleakness and blackness. When I’m experiencing these moments, I am suddenly overwhelmed to act on bright ideas like changing my career, getting plastic surgery, or some other dangerously permanent stroke of brilliance. Thankfully by now I’ve become better about reminding myself when I am in my state that what I am experiencing is not going to last forever, but in the moment, it’s like trying to calm a person in the process of drowning.
I’ve heard all too often that you have to train yourself to have a positive attitude in order to be happy, but at least in the way that I’ve experienced it, it feels like being the fakest of Pollyannas in an unhealthy state of denial. I guess I’m just not practicing it right. It’s not to say that I make conscious habit of wallowing in my state of misery or stewing in my own putrid juices, but I find too many mornings recently when I wake up sad, far too frequent, random moments that hijack any shred of stability in my mood. Some people make happiness look so effortless and natural that it makes me wonder what I’m doing wrong, what’s wrong with me. I have to wonder to myself, “Will it always be like this?”
I feel like there is nothing more to say for now.