i’ve decided to document this “Phase”, and to do so here (of course among my journals and poetry).
it has been 5 days since i have fully accepted this term “depression”, as my current state of affairs. I have said it in the past few weeks yes “i’m feeling depressed” “i’ve just been down” “the stress is getting out of control”, and it always follows itself, with “but i will be fine, this is just a phase” and “if anyone can get through it, it’s me”. none of the above has changed, except one. I have accepted the state of depression in it’s full form; instead of insisting that tomorrow is a fresh start, and i’ll get up dandy and ready to face the day, to fix it all, and start over- surely surely tomorrow. tomorrow never came, and maybe for now, i need stop waiting for it.
maybe this tomorrow will not come by will, but by time only. (will continues to play a role, but I will not be so hard on it, as i usually am). my therapist has suggested anti depressants, the first time he insists on it, since i started seeming him two years ago. this made me worry, this made the statement so much more true, this made it all official. but i bargained. no pills. no dependency. mind over matter. please please please no pills. strike a deal? yes! ok, no ‘natural remedies’, no sleeping pills, no relaxants. and if i achieve that by our next meeting (coming wednesday), then we will continue with therapy without the anti depressants. (ask me how many more cigarettes a day i’ve been having).
also ask me how much work i’ve been able to get done, how much i want to sleep more than anything. how many glances i take to my phone and emails, wishing wanting needing someone to reach out, and say “hey. i love you”. what’s funny is all the i love you’s and hey you’ll be fine, and i’m here when you need me, and try to pray, just keep writing, this too shall pass- they make no difference. sometimes, they even make it worse. much worse. because i feel guilty, i feel guilty for making those who love me worry, for knowing that their efforts as genuine as they are, are near futile.
i don’t need your help. i have to do this on my own. where do i ever got such ideas from? pain is weakness, depression is shameful, there is no reason to feel this way, therefore i have no right to feel it. even now, i hate that my ranting is so ineloquent, so unstructured, so unbeautiful, unpoetic, ordinary, pitiful.
so much of what i hate to read to see in myself, that for now this is enough. i will continue here, if i can, marking the days, and looking out for the glimpses of hope.