Depression.

I sometimes feel like nothing is worth it.

No. That’s wrong.

I sometimes feel like my worth is nothing.

Depression has sucked the joy out of everything. Charlotte’s laughter and pride after drawing something amazing. Curling up with a book. The simple, repetitive act of knitting. Writing, for livelihood or pleasure or both.

I feel like I’m walking on eggshell-coated pins and needles.

I feel like I am slowly sinking, and the more I try to fight my way free, the further I fall.

The little voice in the back of my head, the one everyone has. The one that questions your every action, that mocks your every misdeed. The one that keeps you up at night, running things over and over and over until you’ve examined every angle and are still certain that you can’t do anything but fuck up.

That one?

Mine is in overdrive.

I feel as though my friends are only tolerating me. Barely. They’re just smiling and nodding until they can get away, go AFK, hang up the phone, grab their coffee and leave the shop while I’m still waiting for mine. Like I want too much. Ask for too much. That I’ve put all my cards on the table when they didn’t even want to play.

I feel as though I’m in a fog. I’ve been like this since a bit before December – maybe even earlier. There have been brief points where things look like they’ll turn around, but they never do. The fog in my head has curled tendrils around everything in my life, dragging the sparks of joy away and sinking claws deep, deeper, until all I can do is sit and bleed.

I’m so tired of bleeding.

My family knows. This isn’t some dark secret. There’s just nothing anyone can do. I know I need to see someone, to get back on meds. I know it would help. But there’s one of the biggest problems. I don’t have the energy or finances to search for doctors. To go. To tell my story. To hope that I get a good one on the first try, because if I don’t it’ll be anywhere from a $25 to $100 co-pay a pop, just to start over. Before the cost of meds. I’ve had bad experiences on the couch; I can’t do that again. Not now. But I have to.

I have to. I don’t have a choice. I can’t fall any further.

I’m treading water. I’m so tired.

But I’m still going.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s