It’s that awful time where no drink is enough to drown out the sound of my own voice in my head. When food turns to dust on my tongue. When my attention cannot be kept, but must be allowed to fly free.
I stood in front of my U-boat, for the first time feeling resentful and anxious to leave. I’m usually so calm, I can displace myself and trick myself into working 6 hours without noticing. I just couldn’t wait to leave, my feet ached with the knowing that soon they could walk out that door. I feel like this is the moment that the depression really laid down in my heart and fell asleep.
I usually love playing my video game, really don’t even have the energy to log on. I normally really enjoy eating, I can’t imagine what that was like right now. I don’t have the energy to write or paint. I just go to work, sleep intermittently, and then sit here.
I knew that having a job would be hard. I think it’s just really driving home how much I have no idea what I’m doing. How much I have no idea how to be happy or okay at all. I don’t have any dreams, I don’t have anything better to do with my time, than be at work. At least there, I know I’m doing something in my life. Investing in whatever this existence is.
My coworker said he’d rather being doing anything else, anything else. I thought to myself “like fucking what?” because, what the fuck else is there in this life? It feels so small, and stupid.
I feel so small and stupid.
I am trying to remember how much I wanted this. Sitting around every day, thinking I knew what pain was. Is it worse to be doing this now, with no energy for anything I want to do? Or was it worse to have all the time in the world, and absolutely no inspiration? I’d say it’s pretty equal.
What’s the point of being alive and being human and waking up, if you’ve got no long game going? What do I want to do? What do I want to feel? What do I want life to give me? I don’t give a fuck about writing or painting, ultimately they are just ways to cope and feel cool. I used to want to be a publish author. What do I want now? Mostly, just to be done… and I know that’s the depression talking, but sometimes if it doesn’t speak, it just throws up all over the inside of my mind.
I wish I could at least drink and enjoy it. But no, the anger and frustration leak out, all loud and illogical but passionate and self righteous.
I want to rest, but not in the way a bed can help with.