Sunday, March 8, 2015

Nothing sounds good

You know how when you're feeling meh, not quite sick, but not quite zippy either?  Nothing sounds good.  Nothing to eat, nothing to do.  Right now I have the mental equivalent of that state of being, and it's affecting my reading.

I mean, I'm READING, and enjoying what I'm reading right now, but looking at the shelves of books I have checked out, very few are calling out to me, saying, "Ooh!  Ooh!  Pick me!"  I'm feeling all late 19th-century French poet.  Maybe I should pull a Proust and lock myself in a cork-lined room.  Except, I'm not exactly working on a magnum opus, so.

A few weeks ago, there was a really great discussion on Twitter about mental illness and its portrayal in books, specifically in YA literature.  Medication is often painted as evil, the minion of the Big Bad Pharmaceutical Company who wants to suppress your "real self."  Actually, that's rather the opposite (although I'm not going to start debating Big Pharma here).  Depression is what covers your real self. Sometimes, depression can make the self disappear--permanently.  I found medicine that helps me, after almost a decade of trying different things.  I knew it was working when I no longer drove to work in tears, wishing that I would die.  I know that if I hadn't gone for medical help, I wouldn't be here.  And that's one of the scariest things you can ever know about yourself.

It's not all puppies and roses and unicorns now.  My brain is a strong-willed piece of nastiness sometimes.  Like today.  Nothing feels right or good or fun or positive.  My heart is a sucking black hole of negativity.  And for pete's sake, I've got a zit on my chin.

But at least I can say these things about myself--I am aware of them and I don't want them to overpower me.  Sometimes, what I need to do is give in just a little--like how I spent most of the day in my pajamas watching movies.  It'll swing back up to normal-ish soon enough.

I almost apologized for writing this.  But I won't.  Because this is my blog, and how I feel and who I am affects what I read and what I enjoy.  I have depression, and I'm not ashamed to say that I do.

Also: stupid zit.

3 comments:

  1. I feel you. I also have chronic depression (pretty well medicated). "Meh" is certainly preferably to "I just can't take this another day", but it isn't like the pills are making me happy by any means. I notice the indifference to reading as an early warning sign. My TBR list has more than 25k titles, I've got a couple of thousand books in the house, a couple of hundred on my Kindle, another couple hundred samples, and sometimes every single one of those leaves me cold. Then I give up and watch Supernatural in my jammies. I have very comfy jammies.

    PS: do you see correlation between zits and Meh days, or is that just me?

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    1. Oh yes, zits come with Meh days and then make Meh days into ARGHH! days :D

      I agree that my indifference is a sign that things are headed south for a bit. But generally, if you go far enough south, you end up going north. :)

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    2. "if you go far enough south, you end up going north." Well said.

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