This is a dedicated page. If you ended up here, and don’t want to read about my struggles with depression, please move along. I do not need advice or help in this area. These are simply my thoughts to share.
I realize not everyone wants to read about another’s battle with depression. It’s rarely a pretty sight and most have no instinct or desire to help those suffering. We after all are a lost cause and recovery is often tedious and fleeting. I however write some of my best prose during these times of dwelling down in the black goo of depression. This page will be a compilation of some of my darkest thoughts and feelings.
^Unfortunately, this is but a reminder. I frequently falter and return to the land of the dead.
July 2017 Post Here:
Killing Time, Waiting on a Meteor
Black Hole of Emotional Need? 1/4/16
I was recently accused of being exactly what I detest in others; A black hole of emotional need. This set me back quite a bit and I’ve spent weeks now digesting this person’s opinion. He after all is one of the only other people on the planet I believe knows me as well as I know myself. Yes it hurt, but I had to look closely, and make sure he wasn’t right, even just a little. If he is, then I need to change.
So I began pulling away from everyone and everything. I spent the last month, all of December, alone. I was thinking, and crying.
Yes, my life’s theme has never really changed. Yes, I’ve spent my entire existence waiting to find love. True love. The kind of love that doesn’t play games or attempt to change the other. Acceptance perhaps is a better word because here on this rock, I don’t feel there is anything close to true love. How can there be with our duplicitous brains and dull hearts?
So I stopped asking for anything from anyone, and I was fine. I don’t think he was right in this instance, maybe in that moment it felt like it because I was being a bit dramatic, but on average, I don’t believe I am a black hole of emotional need. The epiphany I had however was simply; no other person has ever fought for me. Never changed a thing about their lives to be with me, or asked me to change mine. I was simply dragged along with whomever was supporting me. First my parents, and yes, my mom would have fought for me and helped, and she did, but now she is dead, so I don’t have her either.
Then it was my husband who is a self-serving narcissistic, passive aggressive overlord who only wants me around as his servant. Our relationship has nothing to do with love and everything to do with conditions and agreements. He sure as hell would never fight to keep me and would only mourn the loss of what I do for him.
I’ve adapted along the way, always conceding to those who’ve paid the bills. He who earns the gold, makes the rules. For a while I had my horses, but even in that capacity I was beholden to whomever owned the facility where they lived. My entire life, I’ve not been allowed autonomy or free will. I’ve also been left to rot in a sterile, intimacy vacant bubble of despair.
Perhaps this is the norm for most and they don’t notice the disparity, but I do and often my soul weeps for what I’ve never been permitted. My eyes leak and my breaths stutter. I cry way too much now days, and most of the time I wish I could just die. I don’t believe I would be missed.
For the first part of my life I was a firm believer in never giving up. And I never did. I worked my ass off and created the best life I could as an individual, always waiting to meet or be found by my soul mate. Along the way I formed a secure self-image and a very developed self-identity. When I lost that part of my life, (my entire life), I was 42/43 years old and I gave up entirely. I’d not only lost all I’d ever worked towards, including my horses, but I also lost my identity.
I tried to rebuild myself. I really did give it a solid try. I’ve always thought I was one of the unique beings on the planet—much different from most. Never average, never ‘normal’. I kind of created a new identity as a writer, but a writer without an audience is just someone who journals. I don’t really have an audience, and those who like my work are far and few between. I’ve come to the conclusion I’m not really a writer. It’s more something I do to kill time.
I’ve heard it often enough, “Do what sets your soul on fire.” You know what? Being in love and loving someone is all that sets my soul on fire. And I’m not permitted this one thing. I’ve tried to love whomever is in my life the way they need, not the way I know how to love. I’ve learned a lot of different ways to show love, the sad truth is simply, others swallow it whole, and then tell me, I’m not enough, or mostly I hear, “You’re way too much.”
I’ve dimmed myself over the years. Life helps with the mute button. Learn to go inside, introvert, hide, muffle, stifle every emotion and every want. God help you if it gets to the, “Need,” phase. Show you need someone and that’s the end of that. Yeah, life wins, humanity wins. I continue to give up. Over and over I give up. I’m no longer a whole person I’ve given up so much. I’m truly a remnant or a scrap. Something to throw away, never keep or cherish, and certainly not fight for.
I’m coming to grips with the simple fact I am a normal, average, middle of the road, aging white woman who never reached her true potential. I am not somebody worth fighting for. Yes, the message has been received.
The person I was in my early forties did die when I attempted suicide. The person I endeavored to become afterwards, was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. And she has been fraught with debilitating bouts of depression. It’s a strange feeling to have no identity, or another to truly love. It should be a freeing experience. Perhaps eventually I will find my wings; for now though? For now I can’t stop crying. I have found it easier to give up yet again, since I did it once, and it was such a massive let-go; this time it’s easy to open my claws and puff it out of existence.
I see a pattern throughout my 49 years. I climb the ladder, nearly reaching the top, and make it far, almost far enough to find autonomy. But then it is yanked away, pulled so far from my grasp it’s as if I am back on the ground, only looking at this ladder without end, nothing but rungs to climb. Or I jump feet first, hoping it is real love. Trusting, baring my soul, giving all that I am.
I think I have given too much, or not enough, or whatever it is, never solidifies into something substantial. Something I can wrap my arms around and find comfort in knowing it is real. Time and again, I’ve stuck out my hand, hoping beyond hope this will be the time. Either I’ll be granted my freedom, or I’ll be permitted to find solace in love. I use to think I’d be delighted to be bound by the love of another. I no longer believe in anything, and most of my existence feels like a massive joke. There is a limit to even my tenacity.
It’s a matter of, “Do I grab ahold again? Or do I just give in and give up?” I wish I had more energy. I truly do. But the chronic fatigue—a by-product of the depression—never wanes. I don’t have it in me to grab ahold yet again, and I certainly wouldn’t expect someone else to drain their reserves attempting to revive me. That is way too much to ask of anyone, and no, I am not that needy.
The thing is, I’ve spent more of my life without intimacy, than I have with. At this point, the sad fact is simply, I wouldn’t know what to do with it if it were offered. So no, I am not a black hole of anything anymore. Maybe I’ve finally burned out enough that I won’t pull anyone close enough to drain. I think it is better to be this way than to take what little, others’ possess. I know we are all struggling to maintain a sense of self. Lo be it for me to ask anyone to share what little they have.
Take this as a warning. Or a caution sign. I have nothing to offer, and I seem incapable of returning what you give. I am nothing, a nobody and not worth even a second glance. Walk away and let me sleep. I can only live so long and hopefully my lack of will to live, will manifest in an early departure.
The Nothingness of Depression 10/31/15
Today there are no self-help mantras that will help me. I scoff and snort and turn away. I malign anyone who enthusiastically finds joy in being alive. Fuck them all!
I’ve dipped down into my pit of black goo. There is no hope of rescue down here. No other will save me and no words will make any difference. This is just me dwelling in nothingness. It’s an incongruous place of self-loathing. Incongruous because loathing is just too strong of a word for how I don’t feel. Yeah, that’s it. I just don’t feel. I’m lifeless, numb; almost dead. The skin I reside within still functions just fine, it’s my soul that needs resuscitation. I normally don’t hate myself. I’m not madly in love with myself either, but usually I’m okay with where I dwell and who I am as a person. Not so much right now.
I don’t have a thing to give to another. I am barely giving to myself. It’s good I am alone and not in a relationship. It’s strange for me, but good. I turn into someone different when there is another person to consider. I focus on them, not me, and I give all that I am. I suppose this is a great thing if you are them, not so good for me. I’ve yet to learn how to be a partial.
All or nothing. Still waiting on the all. Currently dwelling in the nothing.
I don’t even have any friends. I am truly alone, (by choice). It is here I wallow, attempting not to suffer. I don’t want anything different. I don’t want the responsibility of another on my hands. I don’t even want friends who will plaster placebo words over my gaping wound. It’s a transparent place to dwell, and no other can make it better. I can see through their words meant to encourage. Instead their words only make it worse.
The truth? The truth is, I am not worthy of the kind of love I once craved; of this I’ve come to believe.
Intimacy? It’s been too long. My body is parched, cracked, dry, hardened. My heart has followed. My soul has shriveled down to almost nothing. I am nothing. I am so far down in my pit, nobody will ever reach me again. Perhaps this is the first death? The demise of my hope. The letting go and giving up. There is no upturned face waiting for the next, better, more, something, anything, just more.
More is an illusion meant to appease the starving. There is no more. There is nothing better.
My smile is fake. My words are meaningless. My knowledge has evaporated. Even my faith feels pointless. Sure, yeah, whatever—they will bring me through this valley and another door will open, the storm will pass and the sun will shine. I have to raise my voice just for a second, exhausting as it is, and yell, “So what? What the fuck does any of it matter as I sit here alone? Eternally alone, empty, vacant.”
My breath leaves my body as I sob. I grieve for all I’ve lost, including myself. My passion, my faith, my hope, my desire and ambition. All the people, the animals, and the careers. All the try I’ve put into myself; all of it feels a waste. All of it lost without any hope of remuneration. Poof, gone, evaporated. Did they even exist? What did all that effort garner? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I’m more than simply broken. At least when something shatters, you can see the pieces. Mending is possible, perhaps exhausting and appearing insurmountable, but still, it could happen with enough work. I feel more as if parts of me have vanished, leaving massive vacancies. These places turn into vacuums of need and want, never to be sated, or filled.
I am being whittled and honed. I still wonder what I will be in the end. Perhaps nothing more than tinder. The shavings of my vibrancy have drifted on the wind. The core of me is infinitesimal.
There is an art to not suffering. It’s easy to wallow in the goo, but then there is the chance you’ll get stuck. Ahhh, but to suffer? Yes, there is some joy to be found in feeling anything so deeply. It’s such an odd place which I can’t quite figure out. Am I feeling everything too much or is it the mirror opposite and I’ve actually died? Sometimes I feel literally nothing. I think it’s a deep seated character flaw.
There is also an incongruous glee that often goes with the suffering. It’s almost indescribable. Perhaps a bit pathological.
It’s a deep pit though, often the walls too steep to scale. If you’re not careful, you could remain, forever—suffering.
So you choose not to suffer, not to wallow, not to feed that hand rubbing demon. I will not suffer amidst the changes, the loss, the heartbreaks, the emptiness, loneliness, skin hunger and sadness.
I will not suffer, but I will allow melancholy. I will allow a fully functioning gloom to envelope my entire life, but I will not suffer. I will allow the smiles and chuckles, and the rare moments of found beauty in an ugly world. I will allow myself to notice others and not marinate in selfishness. I will allow a fleeting moment to encompass all of me so I briefly forget. I will allow in a bit of light, enough light so I do not suffer.
This is a not an easy dance and this endeavor is not to be taken lightly. To not suffer through the continuation of living, takes many years of exactly what you are choosing against. Too suffer means way too many losses and less acquisitions. It means you’ve questioned reality and the point. It’s the acquisition of pain as a friend; the absence of it feels wrong. It’s entirely soul affecting, manifesting in the physical.
You’ve suffered more than the opposite. The numbness is now definite. The flailing certain. So you are familiar with the process.
I hate this upside down kingdom and this opposite program. I hate that I welcome the numbness like a friend. Like a soul mate, as I attempt to not allow my soul to suffer.