08/15/2012
Classes start two weeks from today. I am not enamored with the idea.
I was thinking today about what I would do if I won the lottery. If I had millions of dollars, and didn’t have to worry about student loans, or paying rent, or anything money related for the first time in my life. What would I do?
Honestly? I think I would probably continue on largely as I have. And that’s sad. Because that means it’s not just being financially shackled that’s killed my dreams.
Speaking of dreams, last night I dreamed that I got sucked up in a tornado. I was watching it tear through the building towards me, and all I could think was “This is it.”
And I was relieved.
Tornado isn’t really how I want to die, though, I realized upon waking.
I’m tired all the time lately. I can’t find the energy to do anything. The dishes in the sink piss me off, but I can’t even find the motivation to bitch at someone else to take care of them. I stand in the shower, uninspired to do anything but breathe in the steam. I lay in bed for an hour or two in the morning, trying to think of a reason to get up.
And I know this is depression, because I wasn’t’ like this two or three weeks ago. I was still fucked up then, but I wasn’t this. I had energy, and I did things, and there were no dishes in the sink and I got 45 minutes of exercise daily instead of 30 minutes five times a week. But then I got crushed under a wave of “I-don’t-give-a-shit” and everything went to hell.
Next thing I knew, I was trying to decide what I wanted for dinner, and thinking that I should kill myself because it’s too hard choosing between food options. A whole lifetime of dinners, of meals, that need planning and thought seemed too much to bear.
Who wouldn’t crumple under that kind of burden?
Several weeks ago, though, when I wasn’t depressed, and I was getting my daily exercise and eating things other than processed carbohydrates, I was whipping myself with a belt until my arms and legs were nothing but bruises in bright shades of black and blue and red.
Those bruises faded, mostly.
The ones from three nights ago haven’t. Or was it four nights? I watched Machine Gun Preacher, and had a pathetic workout, and I hated myself more than anything ever, except maybe the LRA.
The self-loathing is kind of an ongoing thing, I guess, whether my chemical imbalance is acting up or not. That and the self-injury.
Depressed people aren’t depressed all the time. Well, people with dysthymia are. And I’ve suspected that’s kind of where I fall. But I get more depressed, I guess, at least I’ve started to. I read it’s possible to have both.
The point of all this is that I think there’s at least two separate things going on here. On one hand, there’s the chemical imbalance. The biological fuckup, the disease that I’m too stupid to have treated. On the other hand, there’s, fuck, what to even call it? The personality disorder? More like the disordered personality. The self-hatred, low self-esteem, chronic feelings of worthlessness. Because even when I’m not thinking about killing myself instead of choosing between a salad and a sandwich, I hate myself.
I think it’s time for bed. Three hours earlier than usual. But that’s okay. Maybe with the extra sleep, I’ll be able to do something tomorrow aside from flop around and wish I’d just fucking die already.