I don’t ever consciously remember feeling so aware of depression.
It’s the feeling of waking up amazed that I finally fell asleep, wishing again for the release of dark oblivion. It’s going out each day and perfecting my mask of happiness and smiles, to the point where I can almost fool myself now, nodding along to what they say while I wish I was curled up in the darkness of my bed, away from all the white noise. It’s the feeling of nothingness, numb to the world that I struggle to tell the days apart, barely remembering what I did an hour ago. It’s the awful feeling of worthlessness and self loathing. It’s wanting to go home before the day is over and planning ways to escape. It’s the overwhelming anxiety of imagining future plans when I struggle to get through each week, let alone each day. It’s building up walls to protect my increasing vulnerability, and grieving for the ones I’ve uncontrollably hurt along the way.
But it’s also the emptiness over piling responsibilities and never having the energy to do them. It’s the stress of deadlines masked by absence to care anymore. It’s the lack of motivation over anything and everything I used to love or want to do; excitement has become a source of dread. It’s crying over nothing, unable to pinpoint emotions anymore–I don’t know what I’m feeling and I need someone to tell me. It’s wanting so badly to feel warm again, when all you ever seem to do is get colder.
I am not 100% sure. I am not diagnosed. I am not confident in my theories of what is going on. But what else could it be? This definition fits the description all too well, and it’s hard to ignore any longer.
“I’m slowly giving up.”
This is not a general statement. I’m still trying to figure out the total conclusion. It might not be what I think, but I think it’s definitely something. Illness is not always visible to the eye, but evident to the heart.
So here’s to day four of consecutive sadness & an empty heart, and the general feeling of feeling bad.