grinninfoole (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
grinninfoole) wrote2011-03-26 03:37 pm
grinninfoole) wrote2011-03-26 03:37 pm
Entry tags:
ugh
I think the time has come to admit to myself that I have a problem with depression. The idea breached the outer perimeter of my denial last weekend, when I finally asked myself the question seriously and spontaneously. Since then, it’s becoming increasingly evident.
I don’t know if someone has come up with a sliding scale to quantify depression (which, really, is a stupid idea best left to mathematical monks in the thirteenth century, but never mind that now), but I know that I’m in the water along the continental shelf, not the abyssal plains of the oceanic plates. I’m not like this poor woman here (though I can’t stop looking at her picture, intruding on her grief), or like my friends who have hospitalized themselves, or filthyassistant back in the 90s when she couldn’t tell what color the sky was.
I can get out of bed, I just don’t want to. I can exercise, I just don’t feel like it. I can make up and deal with a to do list, it just, in some intangible fashion, hurts to do so. It’s an effort to go to a little girl’s birthday party, or to organize a D&D game with friends. Other people have it tough. I don’t. I don’t have any real problems or impediments in my life (this is how I can tell there’s something wrong with me for feeling so sad, so troubled.)
I feel better today for having gotten more rest, but I’m still not sleeping well. It’s like I used to live, back in my 20s, when I was alone. I find myself, more and more, thinking about dying alone, or finding some justification for my life by sacrificing it for people who have been given so much less than I, yet have done so much more.
I just read Amanda Palmer’s account on her website of making her solo album, and it sounds like a marvelous fun, challenging, soul-troubling solo endeavor. She had a lot of help, and met a bunch of really cool people, but she flung herself into something purely because she thought it was worth doing, and made something fabulous. I know that I have that kind of gift inside me, too, but I just can’t imagine what I have to offer that’s actually going to motivate me to do that, to shove the stone in my chest up to the top of the damn hill, ignoring how it will roll down the other side when I’m done.
I'm going to get myself evaluated and maybe try some anti-depressants. I wish I could get myself to exercise more easily. That does seem to help. (I bet dropping back under 200 pounds would help, too.) At least now I can understand why I'm watching so much TV lately.
I don’t know if someone has come up with a sliding scale to quantify depression (which, really, is a stupid idea best left to mathematical monks in the thirteenth century, but never mind that now), but I know that I’m in the water along the continental shelf, not the abyssal plains of the oceanic plates. I’m not like this poor woman here (though I can’t stop looking at her picture, intruding on her grief), or like my friends who have hospitalized themselves, or filthyassistant back in the 90s when she couldn’t tell what color the sky was.
I can get out of bed, I just don’t want to. I can exercise, I just don’t feel like it. I can make up and deal with a to do list, it just, in some intangible fashion, hurts to do so. It’s an effort to go to a little girl’s birthday party, or to organize a D&D game with friends. Other people have it tough. I don’t. I don’t have any real problems or impediments in my life (this is how I can tell there’s something wrong with me for feeling so sad, so troubled.)
I feel better today for having gotten more rest, but I’m still not sleeping well. It’s like I used to live, back in my 20s, when I was alone. I find myself, more and more, thinking about dying alone, or finding some justification for my life by sacrificing it for people who have been given so much less than I, yet have done so much more.
I just read Amanda Palmer’s account on her website of making her solo album, and it sounds like a marvelous fun, challenging, soul-troubling solo endeavor. She had a lot of help, and met a bunch of really cool people, but she flung herself into something purely because she thought it was worth doing, and made something fabulous. I know that I have that kind of gift inside me, too, but I just can’t imagine what I have to offer that’s actually going to motivate me to do that, to shove the stone in my chest up to the top of the damn hill, ignoring how it will roll down the other side when I’m done.
I'm going to get myself evaluated and maybe try some anti-depressants. I wish I could get myself to exercise more easily. That does seem to help. (I bet dropping back under 200 pounds would help, too.) At least now I can understand why I'm watching so much TV lately.