dēprimor

(I’m depressed.)

Usually I don’t write much when I’m depressed … or do much of anything … but usually when it’s the opposite, I freak out and spill all my thoughts out onto the screen.

I use my iPhone … it’s my lifeline whenever I need it, whatever I feel.

Feelings. That’s what depression is about.

We reach out to touch another feeling, hoping it will stick like hard caramel to our fingers, but instead all we get is little whisps of cotton candy, the stick leftover — the promise that it has been better, but a inane symbolic reminder that means nothing anymore.

I wanted to share how depression feels to me. No stupid literary metaphors that are too abstract to actually represent what I feel … When I really feel bad, down … especially if I’m lying in bed on my side, at loss to do anything else, this is how I feel:

My heart I can feel; not beating vigorously in excitement, but throbbing dolōre, pushing a venēnum throughout my body that weakens my limbs; who forget they are the ones who used to play tennis, who, only yesterday, played Shostakovich with honest, integral intensity; the same types of limbs that power the best athletes now feel like foam: soft, structurally useless.

If I cry, I don’t feel better afterward — nope, not like I used to, when life was happy, stable, sēcūra. Nope, be that possible, I don’t even know anymore. Now even depression feels normal — it feels a logical consequence of all my emotions, thoughts, actions, circumstances, dispositions, and attitudes not unfamiliar to my earlier self. My mood shifts and I forget; I begin to question whether anything is actually wrong or out of the ordinary. But I still know the future is uncertain; namely, since I don’t know how to help myself, since my life is a mess … like this whateverthisis thus ended.

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