Stories from a life in progress.


I've been having enormous trouble motivating myself to do any work for a couple of weeks now.  I think about things I could do, but not many of the things have gotten done.

I have, at the same time, been annoyed at my inability to get moving and disinterested enough to just not care.  I've asked myself quite a lot of times "why am I not getting to work yet?" without having an answer.

Today I'm doing some work.  But I also just plain feel depressed.  I suppose maybe I've been depressed all along and couldn't tell; it's completely possible.  For someone who is highly empathic toward other people, my ability to divine my own emotional states is fantastically poor.

Actually, it's kind of a relief to just plain feel depressed, when I think about it.

I know about depression, you see.  I know it makes everything harder and nothing more fun.  I know it makes me see things with even more than usual pessimism.  I also know it's not really me.  I know not to pay attention to it, other than having enough awareness to actively counteract it.  I know it's gloomy and despondent and doesn't have anything good to say about life, and it wants me to feel that way too, and I don't have to agree because it lies.

Knowing I'm in the midst of a depressive spell is better than wondering what is wrong with ME, me myself.  If being depressed is making it hard to get to work, that's a lot better than wondering if I am simply incapable of getting to work because I'm inherently flawed or hopeless in some way.  And, to tell the truth, I've been starting to wonder along those lines.  Not in conscious words, to myself or anyone else, but wondering nonetheless.