What is this thing?

 

What is this thing called depression? Or what is this thing called? Depression? Not sure which way I want to go with this. When you feel as if nothing is important, nothing really matters--but not in a take things as they come, let it roll off your back kind of way--more in a "nothing is really worth the time or energy, nothing sounds fun, why bother" kind of way, that's a hint you may be depressed. 

Sometimes it's just a feeling of overwhelm, like you are trying to keep up with all the responsibilities of the universe, but, in fact, it's just you trying to make dinner. Or take a shower. Or feed the dog. But it's everything, it's life, it's next week, it's what do I do between breakfast and mid-afternoon? It's the panic of "Oh my god, I'm still alive and I don't know why." It's letting things pile up to the point of irreversibility.

It's all that and then the stories. The stories about you and the stories about the world.

"Nobody loves me."
"Nobody gets me."
"I'm truly alone in this world."
"This life godawful sucks."

If I could distill it all into a dropper jar and put it away in the medicine cabinet to be used for special occasions, I would. Like in the event that life was ever just so damned over-the-top happy that I needed to experience a little drop of anguish or melancholy. 

I wouldn't drink the stuff or make it my daily routine. It would only be for use on a special reminder day. A "let's all take a moment and experience one micro-dose of what suffering must be like and then quickly take the antidote and get on with our happy ass lives" kind of a day.

But it's not that way. I live under the spell of a dark presence. It has invaded my consciousness and plays me like a sad cello. Some may see beauty in pain, but I just see pain. And misery. Not much else. It doesn't help to know that this is a disease or a condition. That doesn't make me feel special or privileged, just cursed. Sharon got MS, I got depression.

Making it my own responsibility, as in, "You're only depressed because you let yourself be," only adds a layer of guilt to the equation. Not only am I a sullen sulky brat, but it's my own fault.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sentence structure, punctuation and content. Blah, blah, blah. Who gives a damn?

I could talk about a lot of things other than this elephant that is stepping on my chest, but he's a real conversation killer. Like, for instance, I lost one friend in the last week, but gained three. 

One was a person I worked with in the 90s. He looked me up out of the blue. Cool. 

Another was a friend I worked with in the 2000's. I saw that he and his wife had recently split up so I reached out to him on Facebook to see if I could be of any help. Turns out he's dealing with it very maturely already, but hey, us depressed people gotta try to support one another. 

And lastly, my brother Mike, to whom I sent a friend request 10 years ago or so, finally responded by accepting it.

We have a lot to talk about, Mike and I, but that may not ever happen. I can't fathom what the feud is between him and my mom and am certain that I won't be able to convince him that I understand where he is coming from. I'd like to understand, though.  

I wish I could help him and my mom patch things up. Maybe that's a worthwhile thing to attempt, I don't know. What could it hurt? He's already alienated himself from the whole family. 

Maybe accepting my friend request was the beginning of a change of heart for him. Or maybe it was a sinister plot to piggyback on my friends list, like the hacker that sent out requests from my friend's mom to all of her son's friends: pure evil.

Meanwhile, I tell myself this little thing or that is worth doing, but I don't really believe it. Nothing lasts, so why bother building something, or fixing or maintaining it? Things just get messy again, why clean them? So I can enjoy them for a time? What if I'm not even doing that? Enjoying them at all? 

Pretty much everything seems like it's just a distraction to get me from one moment to the next. What I really crave is the escape of sleep. To be in a different world, any world but this one, where I'm me, and my life is what it is.

Then there are those sudden moments when I panic and fear death. Not so much death but the whole process of dying, which I can feel has begun some time ago. It is only being marked and witnessed by me as it happens inevitably, inexorably and at an excruciatingly persistent pace. 

May as well just play dice with myself in protest of this torturous ennui. Pass the time going sailing like in "On the Beach," where death by a cloud of post nuclear fallout was an imminent certainty. 

Isn't that what's supposed to make life take on more meaning? Its impermanence? The get it while it's hot, enjoy the rose before its blossom fades,"live for today, because tomorrow isn't promised" philosophy of living?

I'm the one who sees the point at which the Monopoly game is unwinnable and resents the fuck out of the rest of the game, which has to be played out in a tediously gracious manner or else you'll be a poor sport. I've been on both sides of that, winning and losing, but neither seems fun once the outcome is certain. You just want to call it, and call it a day. 

That's me. On the Titanic, playing a losing game of Monopoly with myself, sailing into a radioactive death cloud. What will I die of first? Drowning? Hypothermia? Radiation sickness? Or boredom?