On the days when I make the effort to pick myself up and dust myself off, it seems as if I just sink deeper and deeper into a hole of self-pity and self-inflicted suffering. Depression is something I have dealt with through others. It is not something I have experienced personally. Until now, I suppose.
I have always thought the word depression was over-used. It's an excuse. It's a way out of getting your shit together and it legitimizes self-absorption or self-centeredness. (Is that a word?) And I have felt this even after living through the effects of bi-polar disorder on someone very close to me. I'm not saying depression isn't real. I am saying it is very real but most people who claim to suffer from it are just... lazy?
That's harsh, I know. It's actually mean.
But today... as I sit wallowing in a pool of snot and salty tears... in between spurts of vacuuming and laundry, of course... I feel a grip on me that I can't shake. It's so tight, I feel my heart in my throat and a pit the size of a grapefruit in my stomach. This is not just sadness anymore. It's bigger than regret. Could it be... gasp... depression?
Time is healing NOTHING. It's pushing me deeper and deeper.
Someone throw me a line... no better yet... throw me some Prozac or something. I don't mind staying in this hole for a while to figure things out. But I sure would like to get my internal organs back in order and turn off the snot spout for a day or two.