Journal Entry December 29, 2012

Depression eats your soul and spits back shards too skimpy for even Barbie to wear.

I don’t do much of anything on any given day.  Or get anything done for that matter.  I am supposed to set a goal for the day and celebrate it when it is achieved.  I’m moving so slowly lately that just completing the goal exhausts me and then I don’t seem to have any reserve energy for the celebration part.  Not that I remember how to celebrate.  Believe me, my goals are myopically uninspiring and meagre in their make-up.  It feels dumb to applaud the fact that I got out of bed and maybe even got dressed, but that’s about the speed that I am operating at.  At least the course gets me going somewhere each weekday, difficult as it is for me to leave the house.

The hours of the weekend stretch endlessly before me and I become paralyzed from the anxiety of not knowing how to fill them, despite the plethora of chores there are to do around the house.  So back to bed or the couch it is for me.  When I am lucky I fall into a troubled slumber.  I don’t dream, or at least if I do I don’t remember any parts of the dreams themselves.  What I do have is an uneven collage of vignettes that cloud my brain and flash through my subconscious mind; present…past…future?  And that is an impossibility because at present I don’t believe in a future for me.  Heaven help me my present is nightmarish enough to hands down veto any possibility something worse may be awaiting me down the pike.  At least that is what my reality has been since 2007.  A steady downward spiral into the murky shadow of depression, which borders a crumbling precipice that leads to the brink of insanity and beyond.

When I don’t sleep I lay there and stare at the wall, or the bookcase packed full of junk that spills onto the floor by my bed.  Staring and thinking of what?  Nothing. Everything.  That is when it becomes unclear as to whether the voice I hear in my head belongs to me, or someone…something, else.


October 22, 2016

I remember endless hours of lying awake, day and night, completely unable to motivate myself to do anything but lay there.  I lived in the prison of my mind, so completely incapacitated I was by anorexia and depression.  It seems so strange.  Now I am in constant motion.  A blur of activities constitutes each day, and it is hard to find time to slow down and cherish the moment as it passes.  But each moment must be valued as ultimately precious.  If I refrain from doing this, the fate that awaits me is one I have been all too familiar with.  The bleak and barren landscape of the arrested mind.  The imprisoned and censored existence of the tortured soul.  I choose now to be  grateful for the minutes in my day, even when there are times that challenge me and threaten to upset the balance I have worked so hard to achieve.  Each day that follows the next may not always be full of sunshine, but they can be full of hope, when I make that choice.




2 thoughts on “Hopeless

  1. I continue to “enjoy” reading about your very painful life not so long ago. You write so well and I can actually imagine having so little energy or will that a life in bed or on the couch seems normal.
    Thank you for making your life accessible and thank you, even more, for following each journal entry with the hope you experience now.


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