Disjointed, because that’s how I roll.
I write these things knowing that people will turn away, but in the hope that some might not.
I’ve sat in front of my computer a lot lately. This morning for ten minutes, and then another five, and later on another five. I’ve picked up my phone and opened apps knowing very well – because a phone will let you know – that there’s nothing there. But I look for input anyway. This afternoon I ran away and drove into town, but again this evening I opened the laptop, closed it, opened it, closed it. Opened it again. There is a blank document on screen when I do this, untitled, not a mark, a vacuum that stares back and laughs and in return I sit and stare and sift through the confusion in my head for the words that I want, for some meaning that will grab another person and draw them in, that will gut them with an understanding of what it means to be me.
For a while I forgot that I suffer from depression, dysthymia to be concise. It’s an affliction categorized as a low grade yet perpetual and consistent lower standard of happiness. It isn’t marked by the distinct highs and lows of mania, nor the confusion of bipolar. It’s symptoms aren’t as acute and are relatively benign. But like living with a cut that won’t heal, it’s there festering and infected. It can be ignored or covered, but eventually it needs to be tended to. I’m not unhappy, but I’m not well either. It’s just how it is.
I didn’t forget all of this, but I put it aside. I quit my career job and geared up to move from the community we called home for seventeen years, packed, and hit the road. All of this occurred in a haze, a long jumble of thoughts and emotions and instinct, so much of it just seemed to unfold before me but it was fully intentional. Were all of these decisions conscious? Of course they were. Was I in control? That’s undecided, and that’s the point of this post. I don’t regret leaving my job or my home. I was simply done, I couldn’t survive on what they offered any longer, monetarily or otherwise.
No, stop. This isn’t right….
When a person suffers from depression, there are periods during which they aren’t in control. I’m going to cut through the poignant literary shit and just get to the point, but it isn’t a new one. I’ve been worried about being homeless since day one.
That sucks too. I’ll try again…
I looked at my pill bottle today and realized I have five pills left. I no longer have benefits that will pay for those pills. I don’t have a family doctor that knows my history. I’m starting from scratch. Can I afford the medication? For now, yes. Did I decide to leave an income that can pay for medication and also had the boon of a benefits package? Yes. Yes, I did. But many decisions are governed not by what’s practical, but by what we make ourselves do, what we need to do.
Everyone else so easily stepping through their days.
Someone who doesn’t or has never suffer depression cannot understand.