You know your depression is probably back when . . .

♥ Your last post of 2012 involves lots of bitching about 2012.
♥ You’d make a New Year’s resolution, but they all take so much energy.
♥ You can think of maybe three things to list here. (We are so meta today.)
♥ You’re dragging in a way that doesn’t feel like chronic fatigue or that sinus infection from hell.
♥ Your trash TV consumption rises by hundreds of percentage points.
♥ Your stomach hurts for no damn reason.
♥ Your already low appetite packs its bags and moves out of your body.
♥ . . . every appetite.
♥ You can’t make yourself care about anything except not having a panic attack.
♥ You have way more panic attacks than ever.

Shit like that. And no, “your vocabulary is about as salty as the Dead Sea” doesn’t count. I’m profane whenever.

The little signs have been there. I think part of why I had a filling come loose is that I stopped taking care of my teeth — I stopped taking care of myself, really. As long as I didn’t stink, my clothes were reasonably fashionable, and I had my makeup and hair right, what did the rest matter? And I know that’s more than a lot of people bother with when they’re depressed. For me, though, that is the bare minimum.

This feels inevitable. Everything that goes with this feels inevitable. In 2013, I will probably see the inside of a psych ward. (Thank God for independent study courses, right?) I need more than I’m getting even now, and really? Jessica at St. J’s is probably the only reason I made it through the fall. But I am telling you all, I am telling you because this is part of life, too, I am telling you I need help. I can’t exactly say it’s all chemistry this time. I’ve had one stressor after another. Looking back, I can see me unraveling like a sweater with a loose bit of yarn. Every loss, every sorrow, every massive fucking disappointment that has been out of my hands . . . do you know I had to consciously decide not to read a pro-anorexia website? That I’m fighting the urge right now?

It’s vanity this time. If I diet myself to death, I won’t fit into the clothes I love. So something inside me wants to fight. I used to just… not care. Or I was delusional enough to believe that there would always be clothes. I know better now. I know from years of not-dieting and yet not-gaining that there will not be clothes until the mid-nineties at least. I am clinging to clothes. Fashion may save me. How strange. Usually fashion dooms us, when we look at models and lament. I can tell you, from the precipice between disordered eating and plain old me, that this time it’s all about control. I have nobody to envy. I’m getting used to dressing my bird frame and my pearish-minuteglass shape.

It’s entirely selfish, too. Depression is selfish. While I’m writing this, I am aware that there are people who love me and are probably worried. They’re not standing here in the fog with me; they’re outside, where the air is clear and the sun shines like summer. They’re in summer. I’m in winter alone. I love them no less! I am still sinking deeper and deeper every day. I close myself off and I just don’t feel like making friends. Ideally, what would happen is this: they admit me to a bright, sunny room high above Rochester, the doctors come in, I go out, I do some art therapy maybe, but NO STUPID GROUPS. My only group therapy experience is apathy and freezing and despair. I didn’t care about the drug addicts or the divorcées (inevitably they were female). That time I was nineteen or twenty and coping with the possibility of borderline. Now I’m twenty-six and managing the borderline but falling to pieces under the weight of the depression, and no, I don’t want to hear about anyone else’s experiences. I don’t care I don’t care I DON’T CARE. I know how to not kill myself. I know how to distract myself (fan [and other] fiction, Neopets, Facebook, sudoku, naps). If I’m going to be working on something, let it be something constructive instead of sitting on my ass listening to every other sob story in the city. Leave me in my room with my… aw, shit, got to order my textbooks. Okay. Well, when I get them, leave me in my room with my textbooks and my work.

I only know I can’t go on feeling like this, and since I don’t actually want to die — just to not feel like this — I may have to bite the bullet and take on the debt. Maybe the state will pay. Maybe I have Medicaid already and the letter hasn’t gotten here. Or maybe I need to breathe down someone’s neck tomorrow about the damn application. Eh. If I wake up in time. If I remember. — See? Caring. That is hard nowadays.

I remember being a lot happier than I am now, and I want it back, so let’s go team! Rah.


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