’Tis the season for mood swings. Super happy. Super sad. Super energetic. Super exhausted. And it’s hard, as a writer, to keep writing when it feels like you’re just throwing your words away. You know how sometimes when you skip rocks, and you actually get one to do what it’s supposed to do? It silently screams itself across the top of the water and you can’t actually see when it sinks? You get so excited that you did it right, but then it disappears and you’re all, “Huh. Well.”
Writing on Medium feels like that. I would assume that writing anywhere feels like that. I know it’s not just a me thing. Right now, everything has a flaccid balloon feel to it. Work. Sleep. Goals. Momentum. All pbbbbbbbbbbbt-ing themselves in no particular direction and landing on a sidewalk, drool oozing out of the hole.
Depression has a lot of faces. Sometimes its a feeling of loss. Sometimes its failure. Sometimes its wracking, uncontrollable, inexplicable sobbing. And occasionally, it’s this. It’s the “meh” feeling. You wonder why you care, or why you’re trying, or why it matters. You just want to sleep and pretend nothing exists. I’m not using first-person language. Ha.
As a mental health advocate, allow me to rephrase. When my depression takes this particular shape, I wonder why I care. I just want to sleep and pretend nothing exists. I want to physically go as numb as my brain has gone.
This phase is fleeting. It will probably be gone in 24 hours. That should be somewhat refreshing to recognize, right? Nope. I’m just tired. It doesn’t help that I’m still slogging my way through a cold/allergies/sinus infection/the plague. It has zapped my energy and I am a blob.
I wanna go home.