It’s only taken this last week for me to realize I’m not interested in much anymore.
You ever get like that?
Of course you do, everyone does and we’re all apparently “mental” or “psycho” or “insane” here, right?
I’ve been sitting in my robe, chilling in my bed, watching YouTube videos for the past four days now. I have no clothes, it’s too much work to take a shower or comb my hair. I’d like to take some photos or write or do some homework (I think I’m six chapters behind in math) but honestly I have no real energy for any of that.
I’m not depressed, I don’t feel sad or unhappy, I’m just . . .
I can still chuckle at funny YouTube videos, so I guess that’s a good thing. And I suppose it’s better than feeling overwhelmed by a tornado of emotion.
One of the issues I struggle with is my feeling obligated towards people. I’ve always been the person people come to for advice, which I’ve never minded because I’m someone who speaks my mind to people who ask for it and I’m someone who doesn’t care what they think after the fact.
You asked for it, didn’t you? Now you’re going to shun me because you got what you ask for? No logic in that.
At any rate . . .
The college English teacher I took in high school hated when I used that phrase “at any rate”. Now it’s starting to come back after three years of being captive in my archives of dumb transitional phrases.
Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, my obligation. I feel I’m obligated to show people I’m alright. It’s not that I don’t want them to worry about me . . .
Well I don’t.
But I also feel I have an obligation to myself to show people that I’m alright, because if I show them I’m alright I might convince myself I’m alright through pure social placebo effect.
It hasn’t really worked, it just pushes me further inward.
I think I need to let go of that obligation. I tell people all the time they’re not responsible for other people’s emotions, they’re not responsible for other people’s happiness and yet I have trouble following that advice.
Disappointing people is the last thing I want to do, because then I disappoint myself because I feel I was obligated to keep them satisfied. You see the problem there? That’s setting myself up for a vicious cycle.
That’s where the faking comes in, that’s where the mask is. I fake smiling in public, I fake being happy or not annoyed, I fake it all for the sake of other people so they don’t find out how dissatisfied I am.
But I’m not obligated to behave that way, life didn’t assign that to me. I assigned it to myself.
I don’t feel like speaking with anyone. I don’t feel like going outside or trying to have people cheer me up, I just want to watch YouTube. It’s gotten to a point where I can’t fake it any longer.
What bothers me more so than my imaginary obligation is my loss of interest in everything I’ve worked so hard to get to. I think it’s gotten to the point where the wall I’ve been pushing against and making progress against has gone from a wall of hay to one of wood, to one of aluminum, to one of steel, to one of titanium. I can only push so far before my arms snap at the fucking elbows and my knees give out.
School has been set on the back burner. I don’t have the energy or even the interest for it. I keep falling behind and although I will always be passionate about what I study, I just can’t focus on it like I used to. I can’t spend the three, four hours a day studying math just to get that A on the test like I used to. It frustrates me because I know that I’m smart, I know I’m capable, I just don’t feel like doing it.
Sometimes thinking is hard. Not in the sense of studying, just in the sense of coming up with a simple sentence, it’s as if I have to sift through a soup of letters and put together something that I’m not satisfied with. My vocabulary has disintegrated. Reading frustrates me because I’ve got to read a sentence ten times before I understand what’s being said.
I’m a creative person. Even in my episodes of depression, however long they’d last, I could some up with something beautiful and flowing, something to express how I felt in a way that could touch a part of someone else they didn’t even know they had.
Now everything is so scrambled and hard to grab that I can’t write because I can’t identify the feelings. If I’m not in touch with the emotional part of myself then I’m not able to put out the pieces I want to. Writing is about emotion and human connection; I related to people through words on a page and now that that is severed, I don’t think I’m apart of this world anymore.
It’s only frustrating because writing was my outlet. I know you might say “Well, you’re writing right now stupid”.
To that I would say “shut up”.
I’m speaking in terms of fiction, in terms of creating worlds, the one thing I’ve always been good at since I was aware of my own cognition. I feel that creativity has dwindled to a single, weak stream rather than flooding my eyes like Niagara falls.
That was my outlet. I could escape. I could be who I wanted to. But now that motivation and interest in that has faded, which I don’t entirely understand.
I just don’t care much anymore. I feel that I should, I get angry that I don’t . . . but I just don’t. There are things I want to do, tasks I want to complete, all of which I don’t have the motivation for.
I’d rather feel hopeless and depressed than this. I don’t like feeling nothing, it’s too odd.
So here comes another night to laying in bed in this robe watching YouTube videos of people my age running around doing stupid things with their friends, making backpacks out of raw chicken and sporting it on a catwalk, or downing Ghost Pepper chilies until they hallucinate.
I remember the first time I was offered medication and the first time I decided to try it. I remember, unbeknownst to anyone, the uncontrollable panic that came with the thought that the medication would drain my creativity. I’d heard the stories of people turning into zombies. While that didn’t happen to me like I thought it would, it had always been a fear of mine. Who would have known four years down the line my brain would enact those side effects on itself. That’s what I feel like, a medicated Zombie without being medicated.
I feel in these last few weeks this blog has become a steady diary logging my descent into madness.
Makes sense, right?