Depression is growing bigger, having eaten Alice’s fantasies. It’s the demon in Spirited Away. A monster glutinous for pain.
The truth is: You can probably make me feel bad. You can probably succeed in making me cry or have an anxiety attack. I might be incapacitated by it. But I’ll pull through, I always do.
I think I should be different by now. That I should be better by now. And I don’t want to reveal the extent of my struggle because I feel ashamed. I’m embarrassed.
I drift through the days, counting. I count the hours until the next meal, class or nap. I count the days until the next trip to town, the weeks until I am home, the months until I turn twenty-one, the money in my wallet, the crackers left in my room. How much longer until something else happens?
In Argentina, and I’m sure many other places, Christmas festivities are in full swing on Christmas Eve. A moment of Christmas traditions.
The sun soaks through the curtains, slowly flooding the room with soft morning light. You are gently roused from a truly restful sleep that was uninterrupted by the sounds of impatient traffic or insomniac neighbors. Opening your eyes, you look up at the natural wooden beams and whitewashed ceiling. You slip out of bed and…
Sometimes one thing that frequently makes me happy will be completely joyless and painfully uninteresting on another day. Which is a hindrance for trying to create a life that allows me to follow my bliss in my work.
These thoughts are dark. The shame is so big that it tries to stop me from talking about the thoughts, which prevents me from processing the pain.
My motivation ebbs and flows. Real dedication to work towards contentment and health comes through on an unpredictable stream. It’s rarely strong and often is barely a trickle, but it is just enough to keep me going.
“Are you drinking again?” I said it. It was out. The question was with me only as long as I said it. I was trying to be casually supportive.
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