Old Wound, New Scab
I guess I’ll just jump to the punch; I’m dealing with some ridiculous depression. I’ve been battling depression since right before Christmas. I can only identify it as a complacency that is stifling.
What’s so weird is I think I’m happy. I mean, I’m not miserable. My life is okay. Nothing traumatic is going on in the moment. This has me wondering if somehow I’m better at functioning in the midst of crisis. Maybe at least more — capable.
I told myself I would act on my ideas this year but so far I’ve had no success. I need a jump start, but honestly I just cannot seem to motivate myself toward anything.
I’m also having bizarre crying jags that involve moments of trying to listen to music that used to inspire me but then falling down a wormhole of Youtube videos of unconventional musical covers while bawling my eyes out. This throws me into further depression.
I hate this.
I’m not gaining weight but I have been bouncing around the same 4 pounds for three weeks and it is frustrating AF. I know a lot of this is my absolute aversion to beginning a workout. Once I’m in it I love it, but wrapping my head around moving literally feels like oral surgery.
For those who do not know, any dental procedure sends me into absolute terror and anxiety. This is rooted in a horrific dental experience I had as a child. How this likes to manifest is in situations like my last dental appointment where my blood pressure went up to 237. I’m not exaggerating. My dentist nearly called an ambulance and it took a 30 minute conversation with my general practitioner talking the dentist out of calling 911. I took valium to calm down long enough to do a basic evaluation.
I think even telling this story I’m becoming aware that my past, which I thought I had managed to…manage is coming back to haunt me in the now. Which is pissing me off and allowing feelings of failure to seep into my now.
I began to realize this last night when I told Billy a story about my father leaving me alone with 2 pans of pot brownies and eating entire pan of them. I was either five or six years old. There’s a lot to unpack in this story — one my aunt has argued with me about how and when it happened. She likes to believe I was 16 or 17 years old when this happened. But, I was about 6 or 7 when we left Missouri for Texas and this happened before we moved to Texas, so you know, MATH.
The weird thing about telling the story to Billy on this occasion was something hit me last night about it being an entire pan of brownies. Not even that it was pot brownies, but that it was an entire pan of brownies. That part of the story had always evaded me in context before last night. Even back then I had no self-control when it came to eating. Especially sweets. Oddly, a lot of my unresolved anger towards my father, is stemmed in that story. But, I digress.
What I find astounding is that all of this seems to feel like a fresh scab that’s been ripped off to an old wound. Stuff that I spent most of my 20s and 30s working through is now rearing its ugly head again now that I’ve nearly 52 and it seems so fucking unfair, because for all practical purposes I think I should be pretty happy. But, I’m not. And I find it also very interesting that all of this is coming to a head again once I start to see achievement in my weight loss goals.
Now, here’s one thing I will say. I’m too stubborn to let this hold me back. But, I don’t know how I’m gonna move past it. Honestly, I don’t. I used to use creativity to push me through so much but since I’ve moved to Chattanooga, that’s been very difficult. I have a very difficult time finding outlets here and it’s not convenient for me to drive to Knoxville every single day just to have creatives in my life.
I’m forcing myself to get up and exercise. And it does feel like the most difficult effort in the world at this point. But I’m going to do it even when I don’t want to. I try to make walking playlist that will motivate me or listen to audiobooks. I don’t even know if it’s support I need as much as just, I don’t know, humor. Maybe it be nice to have a project with somebody else. I’ve been desperate to do a play here, but literally there’s only been two plays that have been produced here that I have wanted to be in and I am picky about that sort of thing at this point in my life. If I do a play, I’m gonna really want to do it.
Just writing these blogs helps a lot. Even if it’s just for a good cry while I type clickety-clacking a way on my Macbook. Anybody who’s willing to reach out to me every once in a while and ask me how the writing is going would be appreciated. I think that might help too. At this point I feel like my writing is all I have. And it’s not providing the emotional support it once did. But, I will move through this. I’ve done it before and I know I can do it again.
