That thing, that all consuming thing that I’ve been living with for the past few months is not moving out, but becoming a less frequent visitor.
My therapist, whom I’ve only been able to afford to see once every two weeks, says that my depression is symptomatic of a chemical imbalance and a lack of ability to let others help. Ding ding ding. I guess we have a winner.
One of the things that I like to do is get to know people. I’ve always said that the thing that makes stories most interesting are the people themselves—not the circumstances, or the motivation, etc—it’s always the people. Perhaps I should’ve gone into psychology. I like to know what makes a person tick: what they feel, think; why they do things or act a particular way. Today, as a method of doing so, I asked my co-worker one of these “get to know you” questions, which was “What do you like best about yourself? What do least like about yourself?” His answers were, well, childish. He is still yet a child though; he’ll grow up. When he asked me these questions in return, the truth came around: I hate to give up control.
It is both a terrible thing and a wonderful thing; a blessing and a curse, if you will. Being in control means that what needs to be done gets done. I know that if I’m the one doing the work, it’ll be done well and efficiently. In terms of my relationships, it often means being the one that says and does what is difficult, though painful.
Again, a blessing and a curse.
This hamartia (fatal flaw) is what has effectually shaken and reshaped the foundation of all of my friendships; suffice to say I have none. I should amend that: the people with whom I spend much of my time are acquaintances, nothing more. I care for them, truly—my co-workers especially—but I know that at the end of the day, push come to shove, there’s not a soul who will come to my aid. Not that I would expect them to. Thing about having an open mouth policy is that most folks don’t abide it very well. I’d like to think I’m helping said people develop a thick skin but truthfully, it’s my own hide I’m growing.
To be honest, I’m not really feeling very motivated to do much right now. As a result of my latent stupidity, a handful of financial mistakes made some many years ago that are still following me now, I can’t go to school this semester. My aid fell through. I couldn’t tell my mother. When I figured out, through all the begging and pleading (and lets be honest, a bit of yelling) that there was nothing that could be done, I called to tell her and I just couldn’t. She’s so goddamn proud of me for putting myself through college with no financial assistance and some measure of perseverance that I just couldn’t tell her I’d put myself yet another month behind all because of one goddamn missed payment in June.
So, I’m stuck. Because I’d decided to move out, as perhaps an act of defiance that I could make my life worth something, I can’t afford to pay for my own classes like I’ve been doing the past couple of years. My roommates complain that I don’t do anything, which is true. I work. Come home. Binge watch Netflix. Repeat. Very occasionally, I’ll go out to keep up the rouse or because I’m having a good day. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still depressed.
Despite the length of this post, I can’t even force myself to write. I’ll open up my book, take a look at any section notes I’ve left, and just stare at the screen, wondering what the point is. Shit, I can’t even force myself to read these days. I’ll pick up a book, lie in bed, and just hold the pages open, the words blurring at an imperceptible pace. They’re all blurry. The whole damn world is blurry.
Dr. Davies wants me to go on meds but I’ve straight up refused. My body is so damn sensitive to everything that I’m afraid going on anti-depressants will make things worse. I’d rather be unmotivated, uninterested, and unenthusiastic than feel nothing at all. I suppose that’s something, right?