Seeking joy and meaning in a joyless mind and meaningless existence

Sunday, July 5, 2015

You're a Spade!

I always call him that.
{Neal, The Young Ones}

Not to put too fine a point on it, I've been dealing with unbe-fucking-redonkulous depression, most likely a double depression.  Every thought seems to throw me down a rabbit hole of misery, seeing only suffering reflected in the world.  I've spent the better part of the last two weekends cloistered in bed, finally managing to roust myself yesterday afternoon.  I have to muster the energy to get out of the car when I arrive home or put on my socks or do anything that doesn't have to be done.  I was already far behind at work, and I can't seem to concentrate or get anything accomplished.  I don't know if I should throw myself on my boss' mercy and hope for the best or if I should just soldier on and hope I can keep the plates spinning without it all crashing down.

I've tried to get help, but that's a fucking nightmare.  There's this implicit myth in popular culture that all you need to do is admit you need help, and it's right there waiting for you.  For me as for most people, the world doesn't stop, even in desperate need.  I still have to go to work and pay my bills and do my laundry and shop for groceries, etc., etc.  Being a weird loner, I don't have anyone around to pick up the slack or offer me any real support.  Many times in my past I tried to stop my world, but I never got any meaningful or lasting help.  And ultimately it only caused me a whole host of new problems in the long run.  So I keep going, pantomiming the steps.

I went to see my psychiatrist, but that was a waste of time and a co-pay.  He was, of course, only interested in the two-sentence summary and can only suggest upping my dosage (and waiting three weeks in the hopes it will have an effect that isn't adverse) or adding yet another potent drug (as if three psychotropics a day isn't enough) without taking enough consideration for the devastating side effects.  (I've been on several of those medications, and they improved my mood but destroyed my body.  I'm still struggling with the obesity caused by the metabolic changes.)  I also tried to find a therapist, but that's a full-time job in itself.  I haven't been able to find one that's covered by my insurance and available nights or weekends around my job and that I liked.  I spoke to one or two, but nothing clicked, and they didn't seem right for me.  My lasts two therapists were a complete and expensive bust, and I'm not willing to sink further into the mire of debt at $25 a session without some kind of connection.

I feel resigned to the fact that my depression, my endless struggle with mood, has ruined any potential I ever had and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.  I will endure and endure and occasionally hope, only to finally one day die and be glad of it.  I lulled myself to sleep on two bad nights during this latest intensity by imagining a final exit.  Of course it was all very adolescent and "won't they be sorry when I'm gone!"  I feel as if I have talent; I feel as if I have something to offer.  But it is apparently my role to be nothing more than a placeholder in life, wringing out what little pleasure I can, and nothing more.