It’s not been the best of weeks. I should’ve expected it. It was bound to happen.
I get myself all keyed up to get something done. The energy level’s high, the determination is in full gear, and I’m so enthusiastic. And When it all slams into place, when the good stuff I wanted to happen does, the period that follows is awesome. Even after crashing hard on Sunday after the work marathon, I felt great. I’d done it. I’d succeeded.
On Monday, I was asked by someone who notices these things if I was feeling anxious. “Not really,” I said, “I’m just tired.” They asked a few more times, and I brushed it off. I was fine. I was tired. I wasn’t anxious. I was just exhausted. Now leave me alone.
By Tuesday, it got harder to deny.
It starts by feeling like I’ve had too much coffee. A tension in the gut and the impression that my hands would very much like to twitch if I’d just let them. It feels so much like having too much coffee that, for a few hours, I think that’s exactly what’s going on. Too much caffeine. Temporary jitters. Nothing to concern oneself about. But, caffeine jitters stop. They don’t keep getting worse. So when Tuesday afternoon rolled around and the stomach flutters had turned into an intense, overpowering need to get up, walk, do something, be anywhere that is else, just go, go, go go, it was time to admit that I was, in fact, feeling anxious. Which leads directly into the crash that was just waiting to happen.
The anxiety is a bridge between the elation and everything that comes after. The energy I’ve got left after the blush is off the success rose gets burned off so that the feeling of emptiness can make room for itself. That’s really what it’s all about, in the end. Everything else being worn out, shaken loose and ripped apart so there’s nothing left to hold back the floodwaters.
It gets to be where I’m no longer sure if I’m disappointed in myself because of the depression, or if I feel depressed because I’m finally being honest about how disappointed in myself I really am.
I think, hope and pray that it’s just the former, but I have to be honest. The former doesn’t make me feel much better about where things are. In fact, at least the latter is something I can blame. At least if it’s all logical disappointment in myself…
…I don’t know. I didn’t want to write this publicly. I wanted to do it in my journal, but it felt too easy to lie to myself where no one else could read it. I’m only writing this here (I shelved this post twice today and decided not to post it before coming back to it) because I’m afraid if I don’t admit this where I can’t take it back, I’ll let myself forget how it felt when it passes. Until it comes back again. Which it will. Until I finally, somehow, get the better of it.
That means admitting that, right now, today, and for the last week, I haven’t known where the depression ends and my actual feelings begin.
This message will self destruct in 5 seconds. I hope. Why is it still here?
(Note: I’ve disabled comments on this post. Mostly because I want to take it down, but people have already probably read it, so it’s too late for that. I’m honestly not looking for anything here, and I put this up to force myself to talk about this with someone later. This was for me, and it was a self-centered move to force me to stop talking around something. Don’t feel like you need to perk me up or anything. I’m pretty sure I’ll be good. Anyway.)