Depression is so smart. It really is. It’s a fucking genius. It always knows what to do. It morphs and melts and slips into the tiny cracks of my brain. It waits. It plans.
I remember when depression used to talk to me. I remember it telling me I was useless and stupid. It told me I hurt everything I touched and that the world was better off without me in it. I would give anything for depression to talk to me now.
They taught me how to talk back. I learned how to reason with depression. I learned all its arguments and beat it at its own game. I learned to say when you say that no one loves me, it’s just not true. People do love me. And they wouldn’t be better without me. They’d be devastated. I figured out how to silence depression. But it was a mistake.
Now it doesn’t talk to me. It moves in silence. There is no reasoning with it. It exists as a choking fog around my brain. It crawls through my veins. It closes off every feeling of connection to the world. That was my favorite part of living. How do you wrestle with a state of being?
I don’t know yet what the end game is. All I know is that it wants me alone. All I know is that it makes me feel alone. For whatever reason, iIt wants the two of us in a room together, just like the good ‘ol days. I just wish it would talk to me again.
I’m fighting a battle against myself. The things that make me happy are also the things that bring me the most anguish. It’s time I call into question my habits, and ask whether the net effect was ever positive.
I give excessively to those I care about. It’s both an unconscious extension of my anxiety, and a deliberate attempt to force an image of my indispensability on others. So I go out of my way, plus 5 miles, just to prove to people that I’m worthy of a permanent place in another’s heart. I gave up on the idea a long time ago that my efforts would be reciprocated by anyone. What I look for, rather, is appreciation. I live for appreciation. I would do just about anything as long as I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would get appropriately enthusiastic thanks. But it never does. It never could. Is it because no one understands how hard I work to plan the perfect vacation/dinner/Christmas gift? Maybe. Or it might be that no one really likes a thoughtful gift. It’s an inconvenience and perhaps a bit rude.to ask a person to be emotionally moved without their prior consent. I’ve been doing everyone a disservice by trying to serve them.
Actually, trying to find the words to express my feelings, the word I keep coming back to is “worthy.” I do for others not to prove anything to them, but to prove to myself that I’m worthy of having their love. That feels accurate, but it’s a scarier thought. Instead of the problem being a matter of etiquette, I now have to reform my understanding of value in relationships.
It’s all very heavy, but it’s time for a reckoning. No one wins in the current situation. I have to abandon the thinking that if I do something that makes other people happy, then that will make me happy. From now on, my actions should depend on my answer to: “if I do this, will I still be happy, even if no one else is?”
This is not how it feels to have my heart broken. It’s been broken for years.
This is not how it feels to lose a friend. I knew we were never really friends.
This is how it feels to come to terms with the idea that I care so little about myself that I was complicit in a charade used against me. And all because playing along seemed less lonely than admitting the truth: I am no one’s friend.
Today I tried to write jokes while crying. Is that funny? There might be something funny there.
I think the reason I can’t figure out if that’s a funny situation is because I am not funny. Except when I am funny. When I can make someone else laugh it comes as no surprise to me. Why should it? I say funny things. Still, I am not funny.
I was told about a year ago that my attempts at developing a comedy routine were mediocre because I was only making up jokes, not putting enough of myself and my experience into it. Ah, but my humor is purposefully crafted to distract from myself. Pay no attention to the person behind this joke. Don’t try to draw back the curtain because then you’ll see the truth: there’s nothing there.
That ends it, huh? I’ve aced another round of circular logic. I’ve outsmarted my ambition again. If everyone in the world were copies of me, we’d all be abusive bullies. Course we’d also all be discouraged victims. The bright side is that we’d laugh at each other jokes when those jokes were funny. But generally speaking, none of us would be.
Don’t you hate when the first time you attempt to get back on that horse, the horse is a turd?
I decided to give this guy a shot. He seemed kind of funny. Kind of. Maybe it was just the accent that made him seem funny. Oh, the British accents. If Hugh Grant were from Minneapolis, hehe heh ha hahahaha hohohahahaha ahahahahaplease.
First text was after 10pm. I hate that, so I told him I was busy. I texted him two days later. I got a “who’s this?” Sigh. You actual asshole. The bubble is blue: I know you have an iPhone. I watched you put my name in your phone. Only an insane person would delete a contact after one text encounter over three days. Not only that, my first text to you was my name. You probably don’t even have to scroll to see it! You’re just being a bitch about texting! I’m supposed to think you forgot about me, right? That you talk to such a gross amount of women that “hi” texts from unknown numbers are the bane of your (Bruce Wayne) existence? Oh, okay. Here’s a “fuck you” for ya. Tuck it in nice and tight.
I didn’t say any of that to him. I told him my name again. He responded today, which is two days later. “Hey you.”
I guess I’ll never know if I actually liked him, but I suspect I didn’t. I think I’m just really sad that Sherlock’s over and Doctor Who’s so far away (an anglophile girl can’t be expected to live on Fleming alone). Hmm. Maybe we could have made that work.
Get here soon, Doctor. You’re messing with my love life.