I am in a Funk

But I’d rather feel awful than feel nothing at all

I am in a funk.

This is how being in a funk feels to me: I would like to crawl into a hole in the ground, something warm and moist, but not gross. This hole is in a hillside, parallel to the ground, so I can crawl into it on hands and knees, and then shut a cute little door behind me. I would like for there to be a down blanket in this hole, or maybe a fleece blanket, and a puffy but firm pillow. I would like to wrap myself up in that blanket, place my head on the pillow, and lie in the hole curled up in the fetal position on my right side for the rest of eternity.

Or until the funk is over, whichever comes first.

There should be no other people in the hole with me. There should be no light. Just me. Alone. Deep in my funk.

The ironic thing about being in a funk is that I do not, under virtually any circumstances, desire to be around other human beings — I do not want to go out to dinner, I do not want to go to work, I absolutely do not want to make small talk — and yet I feel lonely. I do not want to feel lonely, but I also don’t want to be around people.

I realize the typical way to cure loneliness is to surround yourself with other human beings, or at least one, but the funk does not allow me to want to be around people. And, thus, I am left to wallow in my funk, lonely and alone, with these contradictory emotions left to battle it out in my head.

There’s a self-indulgent part of me that loves being in the funk. I’m absorbed by it. I hate it, and yet, I love it. I love feeling sad and lonely and angry. Those are genuine feelings and they are all mine, whether or not they are justified.

The funk makes me think, “I am sad. I am lonely. But please, world, just let me feel sad and don’t make me see people or talk to people or do anything else that typically brings me joy. Just let me be sad, just a little longer, and if lonely must come with the sad, then I shall feel lonely, too. After all, people suck and I don’t need to be around them in order to feel happy. Fuck people. I’ll be sad now. I’ll be happy later. I’ll do it all by myself.”

There are several things I know, in the rational part of brain, will help get me out of the funk. However, the funk largely suppresses this rational part of my brain. Some things that get me out of the funk are:

• Exercise
• Being with friends
• Cooking and eating a healthy meal
• Working
• Writing
• Checking stuff off my running to-do list
• Going outside and enjoying nature

The above list describes things I typically enjoy, more or less. They are normal things I do in my everyday life that make me feel like a productive, functional member of society and I usually look forward to doing these things.

When I’m in a funk, unfortunately, not a single one of those things has any ounce of appeal. The only appealing activity to me when in a funk is lying in bed all day (a good alternative to my ideal hole in the ground) and getting up only to drink wine or bourbon and consume chocolate, cheese, and cold supermarket rotisserie chicken. Always cold. Always while standing in the kitchen in my bathrobe.

When I confide in one of the few people with whom I can talk about feelings and tell them, sheepishly, “I’m in a funk”, I secretly want them to hug me. Only a hug, please, no words. If words are required, I’d like to hear, “That sucks. You’re a great person. Hang in there.” Even better: I’d like for them to invite me to things. Invite me over to Netflix and Chill at the very least. Invite me out to dinner or lunch or coffee. Invite me for a walk. I’ll probably say no, but ask anyway because there’s a chance that by asking just once, it’ll be the push I need to get out of bed.

I do not want to hear, “I’m sorry you feel this way.” I don’t want your goddamn sympathy. I want you to understand that I’m in a funk and I’m going to be in it for a bit and please reach a hand out or say hello every now and then to let me know someone in the world actually does give a shit.

I know there are medications that may help me get through the funk more quickly, or even prevent me from ending up in the funk to begin with. There’s a whole billion dollar pharmaceutical industry surrounding the development, production, and marketing of anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medications. My health insurance will even pay for most of these medications!

But here’s the thing: I’m afraid of taking those medications.

They terrify me. What if they make me a different person? What if I don’t like the new version of me? What if they make me gain 20 pounds? Then, shallow me, will dislike myself even more.

And, most importantly, what if they make me numb and emotionless? Because, the truth is, I’d rather feel awful than feel nothing at all.

Written with thanks to The Writing Cooperative, specifically: Daniel Mascari, Sand Farnia, Meghadeepa Maity, Dawn Field, Megan Mooney and Kestley Knoble.