I’m working from home today, because I am too depressed for clothing. I’m too depressed for a lot of things right now, with the only exception being the 1000 yard stare – I am really good at staring blankly at things. I wasn’t able to get an appointment with the 75-second doctor today, but I have one tomorrow. I plan on bringing up two issues; the first obviously being that I am more or less dead on the inside and that sucks, and also please refer me to a dermatologist so I can get rid of this goddamn zombie face already.
Being depressed sucks ass for a thousand reasons, but here is a handy list of how this round of How Low Can You Go is affecting me right now:
- All I want to do is sleep
- I don’t feel anything: I am not sad or happy or excited or bored or content or outraged. I am not anything. I just .. am. I’m breathing and typing and I have to pee, but I don’t feel a single goddamn thing beyond that. It’s almost funny, because this whole “feeling like a zombie” thing is a common fear when starting an antidepressant regime – I know I was sure afraid of losing my out-of-control anger and deep unrelenting sadness, because I thought that’s all I was. Of course, the instant you start feeling better, you realize how much joy you’ve been missing out on and life starts being awesome again. And yet here I am, on all the meds ever (note: I am barely on any meds at all, which might be part of the problem), and I feel nothing. It’s actually worse this time, because I remember what feeling good feels like, and I really miss it.
- I keep losing important things, like my scooter cup holder and my goatse ring
- I don’t care about anything, which is likely tied into not feeling anything
- I have all the creativity of a turnip. Some people, while depressed, can be amazing – produce works of art and have effects and disorders named after them. Me, not so much – and that’s another symptom, because the thought of trying to produce my magnum opus while depressed is technically hilarious and my brain tells me that this is normally something I would be all over with great melodramatic flair, but I can’t be bothered. I never can’t be bothered to do something when the hilarity center of my brain is triggered, but here we are
- Want to know how bad this is? I’m so depressed that I can’t muster anything beyond mild, passing disgust for the people up in arms that liquor stores are closing at 4pm today for game 6 (something else I should be excited for but totally am not). Being full of righteous ire at drunken idiots is practically my raison d’etre, but right now it’s just making me tired
- Ed is away on a business trip until Wednesday, but I am missing my usual excitement at a whole bed to myself, unrestrained Hobble lovin’ and sausages for dinner
- thiiiiiiiis suuuuuuuuucks
- See? Sylvia Plath wrote The Bell Jar, Virginia Wolfe wrote A Room of One’s Own, and all I have is “thiiiiiiiis suuuuuuuuucks”. I am so annoyed at myself
- Hey, that’s something: annoyed! I feel annoyed! Sweet jebus, I’m cured!
I hope I’m back to my normal self by my birthday on Saturday – if not, I’m going to feel
really pissed off nothing at all.