(no subject)
Staring at my phone, which persists in not ringing. At my calendar, with its neat grid of empty squares. Skype is open on my computer, with a row of empty contacts. Gmail is open, and with it Gchat, but no one has sent me a message that way in . . . well. A while.
I did honestly believe I was a good friend, once. Now, I wonder. Because if I were a good friend-- if people wanted to talk to me, wanted me around-- they would call, every once in a while. Invite me . . . somewhere, anywhere. To do . . . something, anything.
I look back at my calendar, and realize . . . just about everything on it, I arranged. Concerts I tracked down, TV shows I wanted to see, gym sessions I lined up, lunches I reserved.
People are busy with their own lives, I have told myself, so many times, so firmly. It doesn't mean they don't care. You need to take responsibility for yourself. You need social interaction to keep yourself mentally healthy, so you need to arrange it. That's the way it is.
And normally I do that. But-- gods, lately it just seems like I can't. And failing at that just leads me down an endless, spiraling slide of . . . of . . .
I know. I'm aware of it. I know that I'm depressed. I know that it's understandable to be depressed. I know that looking for a job is difficult. I know that. I know.
Too much knowing. I understand too much and nothing at all. I just want to pull myself out from under this pall-- I want so desperately to feel again the joy I have found in the world-- but I keep failing, and with every failure I just seem to go under deeper. The times when I'm happy seem briefer, and disappear faster. So fast that I forget they ever were.
I'm desperately afraid that I'll forget how it feels to be happy.
I was-- supposed to be better than this, stronger than this. I was supposed to be able to succeed, no matter what.
Another failure.
I did honestly believe I was a good friend, once. Now, I wonder. Because if I were a good friend-- if people wanted to talk to me, wanted me around-- they would call, every once in a while. Invite me . . . somewhere, anywhere. To do . . . something, anything.
I look back at my calendar, and realize . . . just about everything on it, I arranged. Concerts I tracked down, TV shows I wanted to see, gym sessions I lined up, lunches I reserved.
People are busy with their own lives, I have told myself, so many times, so firmly. It doesn't mean they don't care. You need to take responsibility for yourself. You need social interaction to keep yourself mentally healthy, so you need to arrange it. That's the way it is.
And normally I do that. But-- gods, lately it just seems like I can't. And failing at that just leads me down an endless, spiraling slide of . . . of . . .
I know. I'm aware of it. I know that I'm depressed. I know that it's understandable to be depressed. I know that looking for a job is difficult. I know that. I know.
Too much knowing. I understand too much and nothing at all. I just want to pull myself out from under this pall-- I want so desperately to feel again the joy I have found in the world-- but I keep failing, and with every failure I just seem to go under deeper. The times when I'm happy seem briefer, and disappear faster. So fast that I forget they ever were.
I'm desperately afraid that I'll forget how it feels to be happy.
I was-- supposed to be better than this, stronger than this. I was supposed to be able to succeed, no matter what.
Another failure.