Well my idea got pushed back a few days. I thought that my afternoon battle with depression was just a phase (and hopefully it still is) but it’s not over yet. I have this big internal battle: Take the pills and feel clogged up creatively, or don’t take the pills and spend every single afternoon feeling like my brain and body are submersed in mud. I sucked it up and started taking the pills again. But it’s just been two days.
Oh man, I’m just sick of this. SICK. I cannot take it anymore. I feel like I’m going to have to start pulling my hairs out, or my eyelashes. Blech, that sounds so gross, I don’t want to pull anything out. I just want to be better. I WANT TO BE BETTER NOW.
I’m screaming in this blog post. My apologies. I feel like I’m stuck inside this grief, like I’m a baby chick and I can’t peck my way the hell out of here. If I can’t get myself to fight again, I’m going to lose everything I worked for over the past five years. I’ll back slide right into this self-absorbed, constantly complaining, low self-esteemed, agoraphobic turd who pretends to be outgoing so people don’t as a lot of questions. “Oh look at me, a hilarious chubster who loves to be the center of attention!” I can’t be that pretend person again. I have to get the fuck out of this egg immediately if not sooner.
So? What do I do? And don’t say go back to Second City…I just don’t feel like it.
Just write something. Every day. Doesn’t matter what. Don’t judge it. Don’t write for us. Just put something down. It acts as a lubricant.
And if the very act of writing seems impossibly hard, you’re not alone.
A friend came over to see James Joyce late one afternoon to find the great man slumped over his desk, holding his head in hands.
“James,” his friend said anxiously. “Are you alright? What’s the matter?”
Joyce groaned softly and slowly lifted his head. “I’ve only written five words today.”
“But James,” said his friend, suddenly relieved. “That’s pretty good for you.”
Joyce shook his head violently. “No, no,” he said despairingly. “You don’t understand. They’re still not in the right order.”
You will be able to fight again. Just keep telling yourself that. At times it will be quite difficult to believe, but just keep at it.
And don’t pull your eyelashes out, whatever you do. You have such pretty eyelashes.
These don’t sound like the words of a woman without any fight left… Learning to leave with grief is a process, (a disgusting, awful, messy process…and I work on a farm and have been privy to some pretty nasty things as of late…) Don’t forget there are people to lean on (ME!) and people thinking of you (ME!) and people that if need be, will get in their cars, drive to Chicago, and drag your foul-mouthed agoraphobic ass right out of your new apartment…
Its all part of the ugly grief journey, baby.
The fact that you are yelling means you ARE still fighting. Keep fighting, you will smash your way out of that egg eventually. It may mean you are just about to come over the crest of this particular wave. I normally get the most worked up right before a minor breakthrough.
It does get better.
It does get easier.
Just never give up the fight.
Get mad.
Throw something.
Deal with it.
You are being brave, keep facing it head on.
TOY…PFY…go to RUI??? HUGS!!! You ARE fighting and you WILL overcome the constant grief. I know you will!!!
This isnt very insightful but i generally feel better emotionally when i feel better physcially. Exercise, run, yoga, walk…whatever gets you going. Its easier when you have a friend to help motivate you (aka: drag your ass along). So that is something u can lean on me/us for. Do you want to go for a walk on Sunday? Another thing I find helps me feel better about myself is helping other people. Volunteering maybe? Or sponsor a child in a foreign country? Does that sound lame? I enjoy it at least.