I saw this Tumblr post yesterday, about depression.
It’s excellent. It’s been picked up everywhere because it makes perfect sense, at least it does to me. It may make no sense to people who don’t suffer from depression.
But the whole point is that being depressed is illogical. On bad days, I force myself out of the house (on the very bad ones I don’t wash first) and I’m amazed my legs still work.
“Look at me,” I think. “Walking in the sunshine like a normal person! Buying vegetables like a normal person.” But then I don’t know what to do after buying vegetables so I come back home and read or watch telly. But I did it. I went out. I can walk. I’m not agoraphobic. I have vegetables.
There are a ton of things I could do to improve my life. Stop smoking. Sleep more. Clean my house. Wash my hair. See friends. Accept invitations. Exercise. Eat the vegetables. I could do every single one of these things today, most of them right now. By bedtime I could have a clean house, a clean body, have been for a walk, and be ready for a well needed, natural sleep. I could wake up tomorrow smoke free, with a tidy life and tackle one of the bigger things on my to do list. I’ll feel better, look better, be happier and therefore nicer, the lives of my loved ones will be improved, my business will thrive and I’ll be normal. Normal and organised, sunny and practical, placid and slim.
I’d do all of those things go if I could just pull myself together.
And I should be able to, of course I should. As I’m constantly being indirectly reminded, other people work hard every day to keep body and soul together and you don’t see them moaning.
I’m allowing myself to be like this, deliberately bashing potatoes together because I can’t bring myself to go to the shop and buy a peeler.
On the other hand, if I could change, why wouldn’t I? It’s pretty shit being stuck so deep in my own comfort zone that leaving it is just too big a deal even if the rewards are potentially immense.
It’s because I’m fundamentally rubbish at life. But I have an illness, a properly diagnosed one so I’m not rubbish. But I must be because I can’t take even the smallest step towards curing myself. I’m self absorbed and self pitying. I’m standing in my own head shouting “Pull yourself together, woman” but I’m not listening.
But I do have vegetables. And a non metaphorical peeler, so that’s good.