I knew this was going to happen.
Some people can get into arguments without wishing they were dead. How nice must that be.
This is one of the posts that I hate to write, stewing in my distorted thinking, knowing that I am, KNOWING that it’s distorted, and not being able to change it. Then putting it out on the internet for everyone to see my fucked-upness. Thoughts of death! So fun! Wishing that it would just be over! Being upset that I’m only 29 and I have to suffer through this shit for, like, AT LEAST 50 MORE FUCKING YEARS OMGGGGGGGGG. And, some people don’t have to do this. They can just be REGULAR without their brain attacking them. Must be fucking nice.
Snow day today. Prepared myself to work. Get shit done. Make the most of the time. Made a list of feasible things I could do. Number one, submit writing.
This means of course, revising my writing first. Everything has to be edited, edited, edited.
I’m out at the kitchen table. Everything is open. Kitchen/dining/living room all one big room. Zach is on the couch. It’s 9am. I ask if he is going to go into the office today. He says yes. I sit down to work. He doesn’t go.
I have nowhere else to go. Usually this isn’t a problem because we are in the apartment at separate times during the day. Today, we are both home, and neither of us can go anywhere. He says he is moving to the office, which means we will both have privacy and quiet. But he doesn’t go.
He starts watching a video. Annoying, but I put on my headphones. He asks me a question. I get annoyed. He gets annoyed that I’m annoyed. I snap at him, he snaps back. Fight happens. And that’s it. There it comes. Depression.
Straight to bed.
Telling myself it’s not that bad and that I don’t have to write a post about it. But, I hate everything. Forced myself to get this fucking computer out.
If I was to go in his office when he was working, I would get in trouble for trying to talk to him over and over again. But, if I ask him if he’s going in the office and he says yes but then doesn’t, what do I do? Go in the office and wait for him to come in there? Go in the bedroom and work from the bed or the floor? Suck it up and deal with the fact that I can’t focus?
Apparently I am not nice, I don’t ask for things nicely, and I snap too easily. Great. It’s my fault. It’s MY fault. I should be nicer. I should be more easy going. I shouldn’t care as much. I suck. I need to change. It’s too hard. Life is too hard. What’s the point. I suck.
All I see is that he doesn’t take it serious that I’m trying to work. And why should he? I don’t get paid to write. I’ve never been published, other than a movie review and one book review. And those weren’t paid. So am I even working? Not really.
And then I am like, fuck it, what’s the point in even trying. I have to carve out so much time for writing, and for what, tons of rejections? To not feel like a “real” writer. To not be able to have peace when there are people in the house because I don’t have a place to write, or a place to escape, or a career that people would take seriously?
Most likely, I won’t ever be able to support myself with writing. I’ll have to work at my fucking job until I die. That’s just the way it goes with writers. It’s already hard enough to follow a path where YOU KNOW THIS TO BE TRUE let alone to be attacked by your brain on a day when you are trying to ignore these facts.
Every day I face a mountain of obstacles. You just keep your head down and keep going. I was going to do that this morning. Then depression comes roaring through with her pessimism hidden as realism and I’m just not strong enough to fight it. Not even with a full nights sleep. Not even with 150mg of bupropion. Just not today. And when you’re in the middle of an episode, it feels like this is how it will be, forever.
It’s hard to get published, and the focus it takes is swept away by a wave of depression. Most likely, this day is lost to me now. I’ll probably close this laptop and go back to bed. I just don’t care.
And that, my friends, is depression.