7/26/21

13 Hours, 34 Minutes, 30 Seconds

I don’t recollect exactly what I was reading, but it mentioned that irritability is one of the most overt symptoms of depression.
In an ironic twist, recognizing that in myself makes me feel a bit irritated.

Depression is such a joke, to me. A shitty, cruel joke, but a joke nonetheless.
On paper, it seems like a pretty dumb scenario, really.

So you’re going to be miserable.
Ok.
AND being miserable is going to make you miserable.
. . . Ok?
PLUS you’ll be annoyed at everything, even though you’ll be able to logically recognize that it’s not annoying.
Wait a minute
No no no, it gets better. Recognizing that it’s not actually annoying will only ANNOY YOU MORE!
This sounds like a shitty proposition
I haven’t gone over the benefits yet, we have to get through the disclaimer / fine print first.
Ok, but it better be worth it
It isn’t.
Hmm?
Nothing! So, you won’t really feel anything.
So I can’t hurt?
Oh, no you’ll be able to hurt. It’s really the only thing you’ll be able to feel.
Will I be able to feel love?
HA
Joy?
Mmmm not on the list
Pleasure?
I’m not seeing it after Pain or before Rage
I’m not convinced
That’s fine, you don’t have to be. It’s not a voluntary ride!
What?
Yeah, and you’ve been riding it for so long you don’t really know what it’s like to NOT be riding it. If you manage to slip off the ride for a second or more, it’s so disorienting and unfamiliar, you’ll be uncomfortable in your own skin.
But I’ll be off the ride!
Well, until you’re right back on it.
I won’t get back on it.
Again, not voluntary, you’ll get back on it without even noticing. You’ll be skipping through the park having a delightful time, and then be hit with the numb realizing that you’re not having a great time, and you’ve been back on the ride for the past year.
How? I was just skipping?
Yeah, time gets a bit… skippy. Seconds last for hours, days last for a minute. You’re going to be too lost in yourself to notice the outside world.
You’re not making a compelling case of this, I think I’ll stick with Just Feeling Fine.
Ok, if you’re sure, have fun!
What’s with that face?
What face?
The face you’re making when you say ‘have fun!’
I’m not making a face
You DEFINITELY made a face. It was a bit like. . . this.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
You said ‘have fun!’ and then your mouth did a bit of a twist, and you had a gleam in your eye that flashed like… like NOW!
Yeah, I was being facetious, you’re not going to have fun. You don’t know how.
Ohhh I see now. I never really left.
Precisely.
. . . .
. . . .
I’d like to get off the ride.
So would I.
Then let’s. . . ?
Were you listening? We can’t.
Why not?
. . . I don’t know.
Now I’m confused, is the ride depression or smoking?
The smoking is a symptom, not a root cause.
So the smoking isn’t the problem.
Well, the smoking helps, but it’s quicksand. You’re not going anywhere while you’re in it, but it’s a comforting and sticky seat.
I fuckin KNEW quicksand was going to be a problem when I was a kid.
Yeah, but it’s metaphorical.
Still, same premise. Lay flat, don’t struggle, slow gentle movements out.
Is that how you escape quicksand?
Shit, I think? I don’t remember. I think I read once that I ought to cut some reeds to make a flat surface to support my weight.
. . .
Yeah I don’t know what the metaphorical reeds are in this scenario. My hobbies? Rely on my hobbies to rest on / support me through it?

I think so.

I hope so.

22 Hours, 1 Minute, 30 Seconds

Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.
I imagine an elite from Halo saying this, and a stray smile slips in through the crack it knocks in my mood.
I wish for death. I’m not actively seeking it out, but if some method of convenient obliteration happened by, I would follow it wherever it was walking.

I ache to hold Phillip and tell him how much I hurt.
But I can’t.
It won’t help and it will only make him feel bad.
I’ve made him feel bad enough.

This is what depression is. It’s not logical. It’s hardly even emotional.
It’s yourself locked behind walls that make no sound when beaten.
It’s life going on just inside the warm and frosted glass.
It’s reality shining joyously, but I haven’t the eyes to see it.
It’s deafening laughter that shakes the rafters, and ears that are deaf to hear it.
It is excruciating and effervescent, it clings like oil and pulls like lead.
It is overwhelming and crushing, and grinds you to dust until dead.

This is why I have 22 Hours, 8 Minutes, and 50 viciously fought seconds.
This is why I reset the timer.
I want to feel something that isn’t this.
I want to feel something.
I want to feel.

and in time, I will.

22 Hours, 9 Minutes, 50 Seconds.
Breathing shallow and eyelids wet.
How much harder does it get?
Death kisses my neck, scintillating and sleazy.
I shudder and clench, it won’t be that easy.

22 Hours, 11 Minutes, and 25 Seconds.
When I feel like this, I can’t fathom feeling any other way.
That is a constant pressure that thrums deep beneath the sorrow.
I’ve felt like this yesterday, today and will tomorrow.
There’s no finish line, no breath of fresh air.
Force of battered will is the only way that I can care.

and right now?
I don’t.



22 Hours, 13 Minutes, 17 Seconds.
Focus on the work.
Focus on the work.
Focus. On. The. Work.

22 Hours, 44 Minutes, 36 Seconds
It feels like it’s been hours, but it’s only been half of one.
When it is excruciating, time slows to a crawl.
When it is enjoyable, time dashes past in a mad sprint.
I want to get the experience of living long, misery seems to be the way to artificially inflate.

Living long isn’t the goal, living fulfilled is.

23 Hours, 6 Minutes, 6 Seconds.

Sheesh.