I’m still here. I’m just not… really.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Or, worse… I know exactly what’s wrong with me. I’m so depressed I don’t even want to cry. There’s not enough feel left in me for those kind of emotions.
I’m losing whole days and I’m not even sure what’s happening to them. I feel a bit like I’m walking through weightless, opaque fog. The world is a movie set. One tiny push of my finger will disturb it and the world around me will shimmer and crumble and suck itself down into a whirlpool of black nothingness. I wonder what that would be like.
Not much different to this, really. Existing in a black vacuum, where nothing echoes because nothing is real.
Some days it’s hard to follow conversations. Reality confuses me. I say things that aren’t quite right. I trip over my words, my tongue is useless and too big in my mouth.
I stop writing anything at all. I don’t want to sit and pull great big gloops of myself out of my head and onto the screen because that might hurt.
I sit in the office of my newly-found shrink, Luke, and I cry. I curl into myself and pour out pain and despair and desolateness. He tells me I have severe post traumatic stress disorder, severe anxiety, severe depression.
I knew all that. I just don’t understand why it’s so bad now. Why I’ve been able to be so strong for so long. Why I’ve been relatively functional the last few years and now everything’s a mess.
I don’t know how to fix myself. I’m just waiting it out. I make myself do things, little things. Luke the Shrink calls it ‘behavioural activation’. I think that means that I’m trying to trick myself into not being so stagnant. Remind my brain of the physiological benefits of activity.
So I wash my face. I clean my teeth. Some days I’m incapable of even doing that.
But I’m here. Still. Just. Kind of.
This too shall pass.
It has to.