- a gloomy state of mind, especially when habitual or prolonged; depression.
- sober thoughtfulness; pensiveness.
I’ve always appreciated the word melancholy. While it’s not used regularly, it is such a perfect way to describe the staid state of depression. I suppose it doesn’t cover suicidal ideation, self-hate, anger, losing your shit, etc., but I like that it touches on the idea of sober thoughtfulness and pensiveness. I guess it hits the mark on my day thus far.
Between the chaos of worry, anxiety, stress, and overthinking, there is a quiet to depression. For all the pain that rages inside, that racks our bodies till we are writhing in bed, crying, screaming, trying to push the pain out or down, there is an almost comatose component to it as well.
Sometimes, when the pain was too great, when my mind was so overfilled with thoughts it ran blank – I would find myself looking at a chair, a squirrel in a tree, the weeping sweat on a cold glass of water – and the thoughts that had been racing would slowly come to a halt and arrange themselves as if on lined paper.
How can I eradicate this pain?
What would it feel like if the pain could go away?
Am I dying inside?
Is this who I am and what my life is and will be?
Am I strong enough to withstand this ravaging, cruel, deep, crushing agony for another hour? Day? Month? Year?
Do I want to? Do I have to?
I have had so many days and years sitting, silently crying, my stomach clenched, my body in a fetal position. I felt like I couldn’t breathe but my heart was racing and my head throbbed.
I wanted to scream and yell.
I wanted to slam my clenched hand into the wall.
Tear at my skin and hair.
Run. Sleep. Vomit. Cry. Cut. Burn. Fast. Binge.
Quash the pain.
That specific pain has been lifted now though I feel the scars and soreness it left behind. It’s not a memory because it’s never gone. I don’t choose to think about it. It drifts behind me, beside me, in front of me. Sometimes I have to push through it like a cobweb or a thick, wet black fog. My stomach, my eyes, my chest are still sore, still tight. I suppose they are afraid to atrophy, they need to be on guard.
My mind is still a bully, I guess that wasn’t the chemical imbalance. It tells me:
I’m going to fail.
It’ll never last.
I’m still not good enough.
I’m too weak, the power of my hope too worn, emaciated, and thin to protect me from my true self.
It begs me to come back.
To accept the “real” me it sees.
I do my best to ignore it. I know it’s lonely and like all bad relationships, is addictive and seems comforting from afar. I want to see a future. I want to be the person others claim I can be – insist that they see. I want to strengthen, tone, and mold my esteem and faith in myself. I wonder if I just have to seem to be whole, and in doing so, trick my body and mind into believing and becoming so.
I don’t know anymore. Good days. Bad days. Hope and distrust. Tears of joy and pain.
I still find myself looking at a chair, a squirrel in a tree, the sweat of a cold glass and asking myself what I am possible of and if I have the energy to make it. I want to say yes. I want to laugh at the pathetic ripple of depression that taunts me like a pathetic, weak child. To have dreams, beliefs, and hopes that build resolve and break the bad habits of weakness. I want to want to live a life worth living.
I really do.