I should be working on my script. I know what I want to write, and I have written some of it, but I am not now writing. Why? I’ll tell you.
I am actively depressed. This is not the passively sitting still and watching the world go by kind of depressed–oh no. This is the ‘who the fuck cares and why the fuck do I try?’ kind of depressed. I have been feeling a general malaise over the past few days (most likely because of my birthday. I am about as birthday-neutral as I can be, but apparently, it still makes me slightly depressed), and it just hit me full force.
What the fuck? I went grocery shopping at my favorite co-op (Fresh & Natural in Shoreview), had lunch with Natasha at a great Thai Restaurant, Sen Yai Sen Lek, went to the library with her and got some books, then walked around a golf course with her. We had a good lunch and a good time. I got home, and then I started sliding into the depression. I had fun on Facebook for a bit and my various political blogs, and then I started writing my script.
For some reason, though, I just don’t want to write. I know what I want to write (it includes Alan Rickman, Jacqueline Kim, and handcuffs), but I can’t seem to force myself to do it. Part of the problem is that I’m a fast worker, so I can put things off until almost the deadline and then finish it in one fell swoop. This got me through college, by the way, and it really is a handy trick.
However, it also allows the vague dissatisfaction that I’ve been experiencing to explode into full-blown depression. Then, it’s as if a thick blanket of gloom wraps itself around me and duct tapes itself shut. Then, I just want to crawl into bed, pull the covers up to my nose, and never get aout again. Then, I can’t stand the slightest bit of light because it’s so heavy on my eyes and my heart. Then, the darkness that I try to keep contain starts spreading throughout my body.
Natasha and I talked about the voices in my head. There are many, telling me so many things, I get confused. You know how you’re supposed to go with your gut? Well, I don’t know which voice is my gut, which is The Dictator, which is my id, and which is, well, someone else. Natasha said I needed someone to come in and clean office–get rid of some of the jobs. I countered that I needed a personal assistant who can keep track of my time and who can ruthlessly guard my door.
Her solution is to eradicate the voices. Mine is to manage them. Part of that is because I don’t know what would happen to my creativity if I totally wiped out the voices. It seems that much of the stuff I write comes to me as a gift, so I have no idea if I would stop receiving said gift if I were to lose all the voices in my head. I’m not sure that’s a risk I am willing to take.
I was depressed from the time I was eight until…maybe a year ago. I mean constantly depressed. Well, mostly. Chronic depression with sporadic reprieves. People rarely knew, though, because I am quite adept at hiding it from the world at large. For almost thirty years, my life was gray. Now, I like gray as a color, but not when it’s the palette of my life. My life needs to be blacks and reds and silvers–with blues, greens, and oranges thrown into the mix. Ok, yellow and brown, too, and white can tag along.
There is always a niggling fear in the back of my head that I will return to gray. The unending continuity of…emptiness. The feeling that I am a straw person with nothing inside. A sham. A walking corpse. I used to believe that I had to earn the right to live (which tied in with my hatred of my birthday). I no longer think this is true, but I can’t quite shake the lingering ramifications.
What is the fucking point? That’s what it comes back to for me, time and time again. What is the fucking point of anything I do, or of life itself? In the end, I cannot think of a satisfying answer. We all die in the end. The world will keep spinning or not. The presence or absence of one person–does it really make a difference? In theory, each individual life is worthwhile. In reality, I’m hard-pressed to believe this is true.