I don’t want to leave the comfort of my bed and blankets. I left my laptop in arm’s reach before I went to sleep last night. The bathroom door is next to my bed, but the kitchen is just too far away.
I want to quit the FB blogging groups I’m part of because almost no one is noticing me. I’m wrestling with the appropriateness of my last post and whether or not it hurts my husband; should I delete it? It has to be annoying to have to keep assuring me it’s okay. I’m doubting the whole blogging thing in general because so few people find their way to my words. I can’t believe the comments from people who claim to have found value or encouragement in my words.
Blogging is too much effort, and only costs me money without generating enough income to cover the cost of having it hosted, let alone help my family that fell into debt when my husband was in the process of going on VA disability a decade ago.
I’m odd; I’ll never fit. No one could ever really like me, let alone love me. I hate people. Nothing will ever change. At least not for the better.
Welcome to the persistent, downward-spiral thoughts and irrational beliefs of depression.
A few years ago, as the feelings got way worse than this, I destroyed every single notebook of mine I could find. My words were pointless. My thoughts and feelings, the things God was teaching me, as worthless as I. Page after page torn up and thrown in the trash.
I wanted to erase every trace of me, leave no evidence of my life when I left it behind.
I can’t trust the thoughts that won’t leave me alone today.
And I need to get my… posterior… moving. I haven’t even drunk any water. Didn’t drink enough yesterday. I can feel the lack. I’m getting a headache.
But still I sit. Under my blanket. With my laptop. It’s better than just going back to sleep, I suppose… but insufficient.
I should have known this was coming. What with the mini-up that isn’t-a-high-but-chaos. I went so far as FB-stalking to relieve the insomniac pressure in my skull, left with the familiar burning ache in my chest. The heart-stopping rush of adrenaline when my husband rolled over in his sleep. The guilt and shame that dovetail so perfectly into the descent.
It’s like the chain on the first ascent of a rickety old roller coaster isn’t quite catching and I totter and stall near the peak.
But not too far.
I know this bout of depression will pass.
But I still don’t feel like making an effort to fight gravity.
What can I easily control? What I put in my mouth… or don’t.
Have I mentioned how foolish I can get when I’m off-kilter, but still in control enough to make a difference? Yes, I have…
Practice what you preach, Melinda…
Preaching to the choir?
The Choir Ain’t Listening
Eat healthy; stay hydrated… blah, blah, blah.
Grace is bigger, grace is bigger… so you say, so you say. Over and over. At what point does it become meaningless? Because still I flounder and founder.
There’s always hope. Hope. Some undefined point beyond a future I don’t want, relying on a God I can’t see. Or touch.
Or believe in… At least not in this moment.
As always, I circle back. Grace brings me back.
His existence doesn’t depend on my belief. Truth is Truth, even when I can’t believe it… and when I’m lying to myself.
Depression is just… depression. It’s time to get up. Get moving. Do the next thing.
Read about what can happen before the crash in Hypomanic Redemption: Grace is Bigger