I hate depression. Nothing’s right, nothing fits, nothing’s interesting enough to want to do. I sleep or I sit around wanting to sleep. I feel like a lump of nothing.
I very much prefer mania. I’m type 2 bipolar so the mania is not too severe. I might spend a little extra, become hyper-focused on just one thing, but I’m productive. I’m moving. I’m doing something. The mania goes away too soon, though. It is fleeting. If I’m in the middle of a project, that project will likely go unfinished, a casualty of depression. This is how I spent my pre-diagnosis life: thinking I was a fuck-up who could never get anything done. My family agreed and said so vociferously.
I’m depressed now. I don’t know if I can finish this sentence in one sitting. I Feel like I’m typing just to type. I understand that what I’m doing is journaling; putting my thoughts and feelings down on paper (so to speak) so I can look at them later (Hi, future me!). when my mood brightens a little and I can process these feelings. What I’m really doing is attempting to type my cares away. I don’t want to wait for some brighter future, I want to process these feelings right fucking now, in the hopes that I can snap myself out of them.
I know that depression comes part and parcel with being bipolar. It’s unavoidable le. Medication helps so I’m not too deep in that dark pit of despair, but I’m still a little bit down there. Dipping my toes in the darkness. Y’know what do I tell depressed people all the time? That it passes, it’s only temporary. I see now how empty and stupid those words are when you’re right in the thick of it. It doesn’t feel temporary; it feels like the new normal, like this is never going to end.
I usually try to end these blog posts on a positive note, if only to remind myself that it’s not always gonna be bad or some other useless platitude, but don’t have the energy today. Today nothing ‘s right, nothing fits I am nothing.