Why are we waiting? Slowly de-hy-dra-ting.

I’m realising today that I’m quite debilitatingly depressed.  I don’t know what to do.  And I don’t mean I don’t know what to do about the depression.  I mean I don’t know what to do next.  I feel overwhelmed by minutiae.  So many emails to attend to, chores to complete, purchases to make, projects to embark on, and I cannot find a fuck to give.  If only I had the certainty to simply sweep the lot into the recycle.  Well, that and the sense to fulfill the responsibilities that can’t be abdicated. 

It’s kinda funny really.  Sorry, I don’t even know why.  Maybe my life is just ridiculously unbalanced, and I need to find a way to be of some value to my fellow humans, monetary or otherwise.  So why am I not busy figuring out a way to be that then? 

Yesterday I found there were a thing or two I could do to relieve the feeling.  Alcohol helps a lot, for instance.  But I realised I didn’t want to.  I wanted to be depressed.  It felt important.  Maybe it is.  Maybe there’s something important I need to figure out about my life, and this will put me in the right frame of mind to do it.  Perhaps turning down the brightness on my mental monitor will improve the contrast.  Or maybe I’m purely apathetic about my apathy, disinterested in my disinterest, and lazy about my laziness. 

I want to wrap myself up in a cocoon and just hibernate.  I’m bored with this game.  I’m losing the ability to take it seriously.  Remind me again why I should cook, clean, read, shop, work out, and answer people’s emails? 

One thing that kinda makes me laugh is what a wuss I’ve become.  It’s been so long since I experienced serious physical or emotional pain on a regular basis, I’m completely out of practise in handling it.  One bout of period pain – mostly moderate, not even severe! – and I’m having anxiety attacks for a week.  Depression that wouldn’t even rank as mild on my old scale, and my life is completely derailed and I’m on Skype whining to my friends. 

Of course, self-pity comes to the rescue here, and reminds my dear readers that pain level six means unable to think straight or hold a simple conversation, but still able to walk to the bathroom without hanging onto walls.  And that on my old depression scale, "mild" means having wistful thoughts of suicide, but not seriously entertaining them. 

It occurs to me that my life story is rather high on angst and low on plot.  If I were the writer and not the chief protagonist, I would right now be having a very strong urge to tear the page from the typewriter, crumple it up and throw it into a little wire wastepaper basket.  Then again, if I were the writer, I think I would be suffering from a decades-long bout of mind-numbing writer’s block.  Maybe that’s the problem.