Today would be the day I registered for my classes if I had gone to London. This past week, I’ve approached each day in relation to what I would be doing if I had made the decision to go. And it’s made worse by the fact that I’m basically doing nothing to move my life forward. After all, I decided not to go because I wasn’t emotionally ready and wanted to grow stronger. I’ve spent the last month taking two classes at a community college and going to the gym when I can get up the nerve. I’m guessing this isn’t going to cut it.
When I tell others about what my day “could have been like,” they tell me not to worry; I’ll be there in a year. I mean, that was the plan in deferring. But I think I know I’m not. I wasn’t even planning on going, the whole idea was just an experiment to see if I had the guts to apply. And then once I got in, it was just assumed I would attend. A part of me thinks I said I’d go because I wanted to be that person who could.
I know you never know when you’ll be ready for something in life. And that you can find reasoning and purpose behind almost all choices. But I feel like I failed. I’m angry that I can’t be that person and that I may never be. I can’t even tell if I want to be that person that could. And I hate the people who can.
One of my main issues with my depression was that I felt like I was alive but not living. I was breathing, peeing, eating, sleeping, but I wasn’t living, not really. I was sticking around physically for the people around me so they wouldn’t have to deal with the grief of my absence. I suppose they preferred the burden of my depression, rather than the grief of my passing.
The chemical depression has mostly worn off. (More on that later.) But I still don’t feel like I’m living. Sometimes, I’ll be engaged in a conversation with someone and for those minutes, I do feel alive. When I’m in class, or doing homework, I feel alive. And then I walk back to my car and I feel alone – just me and my breathing. Time passing, me just being.
At what point is being alive not enough? I suppose it has something to do with hope. With believing in a future. With finding peace in the present. I keep thinking to myself: “What would it take for you to feel satisfied? To feel you had a life worth living?” And then I take a propranolol and turn on the tv. It’s just not a question I’m willing to face.
Today would be registration day. Today I could be living. Today I grieve who I am and what I have lost or never have had. Maybe tomorrow will be different.