You’ll have noticed the lack of a witty and insightful title. This is not insignificant.
I’m finding it hard to blog. There’s two strands to why. First, I’m – I think – pretty substantially depressed. I’m not aware of an emotional impact, but I seem to be chronically tired, and getting out of bed has become a Herculean task; I managed it at about 13:17 today. Maybe doesn’t sound like a big deal – some people with depression spend days in bed – but for me, it is.
Part of the reason I’m finding it hard to get out of bed is that I feel safer there. This relates to the second reason I’m finding it hard to blog – my anxiety levels are through the roof. Why? I can’t tell you. I can’t blog about the reasons because putting them into words makes me too scared. I’m sorry, but I can’t face making myself go there. I’m sorry.
It’s related to the time of year, and it will get worse, and the fear won’t ever lift, now, until March. I find this so hard. Being anxious to the point of nausea for 5 months, solidly, with no respite. It makes it hard to sleep, hard to eat, hard to read, hard to watch TV, hard to think – hard just to exist. It would be so much easier not to exist, the peace and quiet would be worth it.
I know that makes me sound like a squealing drama queen, but I can’t help it. Sorry. If I sound desperate, I am desperate. I am so tired, and I want peacefulness more than anything else in the world, but I know I won’t rest properly from now until the spring.
I find this so hard. Depression is familiar. It’s no fun, but it’s been ubiquitous for more than a decade now, and I know it, I understand it, I know how to cope with it, how to get through the worse patches in order to get to the better ones. I can cope, too, just about, in a way, with the more obviously crazy bullshit my mind throws at me, the hearing people talking, the seeing things – even the paranoia, which is truly horrible because of the way it undermines everything: thought, perception, cause-and-effect, friendship, everything that makes the world makes sense. But this, this anxiety (stupid, stupid, inadequate, inexpressive little word), is so much worse because it’s just a normal feeling turned up the nth degree.
I can’t fight it as irrational, because it isn’t irrational. The thing I’m frightened of (and I can’t tell you what it is, and I’m sorry) will happen one day, maybe today, maybe in the next couple of hours. For these four or five months every year I live constantly in the shadow of imminently experiencing the thing I am most terrified of in all the world, the thing I would rather die than have to face. Five months of living on the very, very edge of life: how can I cope with that?
I will have to, of course. I have been; this is the fourth winter I will have faced where I feel like this. No doubt it isn’t and won’t be so bad as lack of sleep is making it seem. But it isn’t worth the effort. Nothing is worth this, not even the relief of spring. And spring is so very far away.