Let me be real with you.
Anyone who’s been following this blog long enough knows that I have. . .problems. I’ve hinted at them, talking out the side of my mouth. Let me just come out and say it.
I often suffer from depression.
The worst part about it is that often there’s no sign, no hint for when it starts up. If I’m being honest, I’m in a bout of it right now. Today was a beautiful day. Sun was shining, birds were singing, the dog wanted to cuddle, and my cat acknowledged my existence. K and I were great, cleaned the house, and was able to focus on several projects that I’ve been wanting to start for a while now. Today was a good day.
Then why do I feel like shit?
It makes no sense. And that’s the worst part about it. It comes on without warning and it consumes your world. Writing this down—to tear myself away from a game of solitaire of all things—took more of my willpower than I care to admit without being embarrassed. Even as I write this, I’m not sure that it will ever see the light of day.
Trying to describe depression for people sometimes is like having a bird teach a fish to fly. The worlds just don’t meet. More than once I’ve been told to just change yourself. That willpower is the key. Here’s the thing—it isn’t. No amount of willpower can make you feel whole when all you feel inside is a pit. It’s a sudden and unexplainable change. At one moment, you’re screaming from the top of your lungs that you own this shit. That you are the best at the game and no one—NO ONE!—can beat you on your best day. Intellectually, you know that you’re boasting, but who cares? Give me the props that I deserve and I’ll move on.
Then it’s all gone. The words are garbley-gook. That person you were criticizing a moment ago is suddenly leagues better than you. You question why anyone would want a single damn thing to do with you, including your family and significant others. They see the pain in your eyes, but the lack of understanding hurts more than their comfort. Nobody wants a thing to do with you. I’ll let you figure out where the mind goes next.
There are days that I’m afraid to touch certain things. I know too much about too many things to feel comfortable when I’m in full swing. Hell, there are days where I’m literally afraid that I’ll end up like Hemmingway (minus the whole living through war thing), but then again, I’m not the most manly of men. Heh. My wife knows that and at least is ok with it.
Or so she says. Is she telling the truth? If so, then why does she like the strong, muscular men on the television? These are the doubts that creep in. Intellectually, I know what’s going on in my wife’s head, but depression isn’t logical. It’s the farthest thing from logical. It’s all emotion.
Every last bit.