A deep 4+ day depression has started to move and things are settling back into place. The level at which I am able to unconsciously dissociate from my value in life, and how fucking real that blindness feels, is really staggaring. It’s debilitating to go through, and it’s awe-inducing to look back on from the clearing, flooded with flight and exhaustion.
How can I not see it? It’s been my keystone for over 20 years, how do I watch myself dismantle my social media accounts and dive into intense software projects to rewrite my personas and not know I am rupturing again?
How do I go dark and batton down and withdraw from proven avenues, while simultaneously spending virtually all the limited energy I have struggling to remanufacture communication platforms that feel authentic and NOT REALIZE I HAVE LOST MY FUCKING MIND AGAIN?
I was convinced for days that I needed to kill myself after the tour, start planning how to make it graceful like for y’all, and look like an accident. I just could not imagine any utility in existing any longer than my immediate commitments, which only extend to April. It just made sense.
I stayed laying in bed for hours, not letting it move, not crying any of it out for some reason.
It’s so fucking ingrained in me to hold it in.
Catalyzing it out via inevitably-codependent human is worse, but being intimately alone like I am is fucking risky. By stepping off the escalators and refusing to get on again there is no one in my life who would know how to come for me, or even know if I was in real trouble. There hasn’t been anyone like that for a long time, even longer than it’s been since I just stopped trying to cultivate it.
Is it because I need it to be like this to live with myself? Live with the impacts of what it is to be you and to know me? Is it because I need it to be this god damn fucking hard?
Is this really the best I have ever been?
I don’t often feel of this world (I expect I am before my time really), but often it’s only when I recognize I’m spending most of my waking hours staring off into space while holding back a wall of tears that I even begin to grok that a bigger process has been trying to happen, stinging behind my face for days as I launched myself deeper and deeper into a computer.
The flavor has aged, the frequency less, yet I feel no matter how long I deal with being this way I will still discover myself blindsided by my own cleverness. The deceptive methods I, and others like me, use to perform as functional, if not eccentric depressives for you, are methods that I also use on myself.
That’s what makes it so convincing. And that’s also what makes it hurt.
Perhaps this really is just how I am.
How I am hurts.