I am often disheartened by the cold commercialism of society. As I watch the rise of the giant corporations and mega conglomerates, I feel like life in general is becoming less conducive to humanity and relationships and more about flashy advertisements and raking in the money. Those few people running the world don’t just seem to be garden-variety-greedy anymore, they seem to be Scrooge-McDuck-diving-into-a-swimming-pool-of-gold-greedy.
Recently I was walking around a Walmart, my head almost swimming from all the useless stuff trying to attract my attention, when I suddenly had the impulse to go around the store and ask every employee I could find whether they believe Walmart really gives a shit about them as a person, or if they think they are viewed as a replaceable number only. I resisted the urge, but as someone who spent a short amount of time working as a greeter at Walmart, I can almost guarantee that if the employees answered my question honestly, probably none of them would say the corporation gives a damn about them. And that microcosm of Walmart, represents an entire world of similar sentiments.
I’m not in a good place right now. I wish I was, but I’m not. For the past couple months, I have been struggling off and on with what almost feels like a new low level of depression. Half the time I can’t stop crying, and half the time I feel almost absolutely nothing. I swing between numbness and despair, with a few almost decent days thrown in here and there. This may sound strange, but I am even too depressed to entertain suicidal thoughts. I just can’t think that far ahead right now or drum up the energy to make a decision like that.
There seems to be no rhyme or reason. For several days I may be weepy and lethargic, skipping meals without even meaning to, and only finding comfort from burrowing in a pile of heavy blankets or laying on our swing outside. Then out of the blue, I might have a decent day where I can get myself showered, dressed, and actually get a few chores done or do a little shopping…but the very next day, I’m likely to be right back huddled up on the bed or the couch.
I guess the only good news is that today is my appointment with my psychiatrist, and I am praying he takes me off the Prozac and can get me onto an antidepressant that will actually work again, because the current cocktail of medications doesn’t seem to be cutting it anymore.
I’ve been feeling like shit for a few days now (honestly, it has been longer than that, but the last few days were especially bad). So, my creative side has definitely been expressing that. I decided to make a couple ACEO sticker collages, and as you can see below, my mood comes across loud and clear with my black graffiti scrawls on the colorful backgrounds. I wouldn’t exactly call it “good art”, but it is expressive.
I’ve been severely depressed for a week or two now and yesterday it kind of hit a boiling point. I decided to try to get out of the house and drive to a local park to do some journaling, but all that ended up doing was causing a breakdown. I cried on the drive over, I cried while at the park, I cried on the drive home, and when I got back home I collapsed into bed and sobbed for at least an hour straight. By the time it was over, my pillow was soaked clear through and I had a migraine coming on.
I did journal while I was at the park, but it sort of ended up turning into a mock suicide letter – I was that depressed. I didn’t have the intention to go through with any form of suicidal action, but I sure felt the desire to do so. I felt so low that I had almost convinced myself that even my husband would be better off without me and would probably be relieved to be rid of me. Depression is a masterful liar and can be very persuasive.
Today I’m not feeling a lot better. More numb than anything I suppose. My body feels extremely heavy, like I have put on several hundred pounds, although I know the real weight is internal, not external. I might try to force myself out of the house again, just to see if today might go better than yesterday, but right now, I can’t even drum up the energy to take a bath. The most depressing thing is that THIS is my life. THIS is what living with Bipolar type 2 is like. I’m stuck on a wheel that I can’t get off. I’m so sick of this cycle.
Today I woke up feeling like utter dog-shit. Depressed to the point of feeling nothing and not caring about anything. I honestly don’t even care about this blog post lol, but I’m writing it anyway. I often think of this mood as the “don’t give a fuck” mood. The house is dirty? Don’t give a fuck. The cats are whining and tearing the bathroom apart? Don’t give a fuck. I’m hungry and my stomach is growling? Don’t give a fuck. I forgot to take my medicine? Don’t give a fuck. There are aliens invading earth? Don’t give a fuck.
In a sense, it is almost an enjoyable, freeing feeling. As someone who is usually extremely anxious and overthinks everything, feeling like I honestly don’t give a shit about anything is kind of relaxing and oddly calming. Of course, the downside is that if I let it, this feeling will paralyze me and I won’t do anything I need to do or live up to the responsibilities I have (even as few as they are).
Hopefully people won’t be offended by the harsh language of this post, but if they are, you can probably guess what my reaction would be today.
Kind of a blah, muddled painting for a blah, muddled day. Just not feeling it today…any of it. Really tempted to go back to bed, but I already slept 11 hours or so. I can always tell when I’m super depressed because I sleep A LOT. The normal 8 hours of sleep becomes 12 hours a night. And even then, I want to sleep all day too, I just try not to allow myself. I always did like that joke about how being “super depressed” is just like being “regular depressed”, except that for “super depression” you wear a cape. I need a cape.
Lately I’ve hit the worst and longest lasting reading slump I can remember. For at least a couple months now I have struggled with picking up a book (any book) and reading it. I’ve tried a multitude of genres and subject matter, so I don’t think that is the issue. I’ve tried books of different lengths and even graphic novels and books with lots of pictures and still find myself throwing most of them to the side relatively quickly and just losing interest. I’m starting to worry this may be my new normal.
But WHO AM I if I no longer like to read? Reading and being a devoted reader has been such a huge part of my identity for so long that I feel lost without the passion for books I’ve always had. If you aren’t a reader, I know you will probably think this is a stupid post, but if you are like me and love to live in other worlds through print, you probably get my sense of despair and existential angst over this matter.
I don’t feel like writing today. I don’t feel like moving today. I feel like becoming a permanent bump on the couch and eating no bake cookies all day while listening to sad 90’s music. That’s ALL I feel like doing today.