Today has been a lot more cheerful, and it doesn't even feel hard to keep it that way. Darkness passes, with the help of honesty and the support of good friends. I'm grateful for the passing and the support.
There's this about being low-spirited, it uncovers things I want to hide. When I'm at a bottom-place, sitting in the squelchy icky cold mud of depression and disillusionment, there isn't much point in not telling myself the truth, however dark. It's on a day like yesterday, scared and depressed because my bank accounts are nearly empty, that I can say why I haven't found a new job to fill them back up again and why I have barely tried. I don't believe there's anything good out there for me -- worse than that, I expect active harm. I expect disapproval and severe faces. I expect thankless, hateful work. I expect politics and furtiveness and complaining to co-workers while making nice to the boss. I expect nothing but terrible environments and crushing boredom and to trade my time and health and life for mere money, which is not fair in the least. I expect to find nothing good. That part of my heart is violently embittered, angry and hurting, and I won't re-form any sort of working life until I address this.
It's on a low-spirited day that I feel what being depressed does to my body, and I can say that I just plain hate it. I hate the fatigue and achy tight muscles, I hate that my brain is slow and has difficulty shrugging off illogical but scary what-if-that-happens ideas. I hate my lack of motivation. Yesterday I was kind to myself and worked within my limitations, but I dislike the limitations and dislike their cause more.
It's on low days that I can look to God and say, I don't understand why you set me up for this. I don't understand why you let me be a person who would get myself into this sort of mess. Is this what love does? And you supposedly cherish me like a daughter or a sister or a spouse or a dear friend? I don't understand you at all.
Low days are no fun, but they enable me to say hard things. Not true things, but real ones -- stuff that exists in my heart, regardless of truth, poisoning my outlook on life and my ability to walk on and make changes. Sitting in the icky squelchy mud of disillusionment, I'm close enough to root around in that mud and see what it's made of, find the lurking dark springs that feed it. I don't like visiting these low places, but while I'm there, at least I'll fish around and find some truth to carry out again.