Like a broken record.
This is not a hold your head high day.
This is a keep your head down and hope no one notices you're broken day.
My cheeks burn, mostly with the dying rage of recent tears, but also with the shame of self-awareness, with the awkwardness of this setting.
I shouldn't have come into work today, but I couldn't bring myself to call out. So, after a horribly slow start, after being too ashamed of the reason for my tardiness--how reluctant my depression makes me, how unwilling I was to face the world, how I chose to just lie in bed longer than I should have, to languish under the hot fall of water in the shower--to call in and explain, after spending the first twenty minutes on the clock logged into the wrong queue, I want to go home. I want to hide. I want to crawl under my desk and just cease to exist. I find myself unable to keep from crying, even while on the phone with customers, tears rising unbidden, without reason. I spent a good ten minutes in the bathroom bawling until I threw up the phlegm which crawled into my throat. I can't make my face stop feeling so hot. It's like I wear this shame, this depression as a flag.
I want to go home. I don't want to have to ask, like a good, responsible person. I don't want to have anyone look at me like this. I don't want to have to explain why I'm like this, why I'm broken. I just want to run away. I just want to hide.
I know what this is. I know why it's here. It's so stupid. I think I should be stronger than this, that I should be able to fight it. If I can identify the source, understand why it's here, what it wants, why can't I just fight it off, beat it into submission and make it go away?
I had a wonderful weekend. I didn't really do much. Flaked on all obligations, truth be told. But I spent it with Justin, and I relaxed like I hadn't in weeks. It felt good. I was happy.
I went to sleep with mania still kicking about in my head, ideas rattling loudly, thrashing from side to side, from this to that, and I think I fell asleep dreaming about a story that's taken seed. For that, I wake up spent, exhausted, all the happy I have used up.
That's not entirely true. It's more like Pandora's Box, I suppose. I'm not entirely hopeless. I'm not despairing. I've torn through all the pretty paper and opened what's inside only to be bombarded with ick. This analogy stinks.
I wonder about the fairness of this, having a definitive price to pay for my happiness. Every high has a corresponding low. Part of me is horribly angered by this, unduly so, wanting it to be free or feeling that I pay in other ways, but the truth is that I don't. Oh, there may be effort spent to keep myself in a better place mentally, vigilance against the insistent downward tug that seems to never truly be completely still and silent, but there isn't effort to making my life what it ought to be, effort in general. Effort with tangible, practical effect. Remember my last post? Yeah. I can't be angry. I can't feel entitled to happiness when I'm not working toward it, when all I'm doing is holding steady, maintaining this contentment. I have no right to this anger, no justification for it beyond childishness.
I add that to my shame, which pulls me down. I add that to my fire, which I hope will spur me to action.
There is no magic wand.
I don't feel strong enough to take on anything today, not my open tickets, not new phone calls, not looking people in the eye, not even getting out of bed. But I got out of bed. I've taken phone calls. I'm stronger than I think. Why can't I remember that? By doing, there is strength.
This is a keep your head down and hope no one notices you're broken day.
My cheeks burn, mostly with the dying rage of recent tears, but also with the shame of self-awareness, with the awkwardness of this setting.
I shouldn't have come into work today, but I couldn't bring myself to call out. So, after a horribly slow start, after being too ashamed of the reason for my tardiness--how reluctant my depression makes me, how unwilling I was to face the world, how I chose to just lie in bed longer than I should have, to languish under the hot fall of water in the shower--to call in and explain, after spending the first twenty minutes on the clock logged into the wrong queue, I want to go home. I want to hide. I want to crawl under my desk and just cease to exist. I find myself unable to keep from crying, even while on the phone with customers, tears rising unbidden, without reason. I spent a good ten minutes in the bathroom bawling until I threw up the phlegm which crawled into my throat. I can't make my face stop feeling so hot. It's like I wear this shame, this depression as a flag.
I want to go home. I don't want to have to ask, like a good, responsible person. I don't want to have anyone look at me like this. I don't want to have to explain why I'm like this, why I'm broken. I just want to run away. I just want to hide.
I know what this is. I know why it's here. It's so stupid. I think I should be stronger than this, that I should be able to fight it. If I can identify the source, understand why it's here, what it wants, why can't I just fight it off, beat it into submission and make it go away?
I had a wonderful weekend. I didn't really do much. Flaked on all obligations, truth be told. But I spent it with Justin, and I relaxed like I hadn't in weeks. It felt good. I was happy.
I went to sleep with mania still kicking about in my head, ideas rattling loudly, thrashing from side to side, from this to that, and I think I fell asleep dreaming about a story that's taken seed. For that, I wake up spent, exhausted, all the happy I have used up.
That's not entirely true. It's more like Pandora's Box, I suppose. I'm not entirely hopeless. I'm not despairing. I've torn through all the pretty paper and opened what's inside only to be bombarded with ick. This analogy stinks.
I wonder about the fairness of this, having a definitive price to pay for my happiness. Every high has a corresponding low. Part of me is horribly angered by this, unduly so, wanting it to be free or feeling that I pay in other ways, but the truth is that I don't. Oh, there may be effort spent to keep myself in a better place mentally, vigilance against the insistent downward tug that seems to never truly be completely still and silent, but there isn't effort to making my life what it ought to be, effort in general. Effort with tangible, practical effect. Remember my last post? Yeah. I can't be angry. I can't feel entitled to happiness when I'm not working toward it, when all I'm doing is holding steady, maintaining this contentment. I have no right to this anger, no justification for it beyond childishness.
I add that to my shame, which pulls me down. I add that to my fire, which I hope will spur me to action.
There is no magic wand.
I don't feel strong enough to take on anything today, not my open tickets, not new phone calls, not looking people in the eye, not even getting out of bed. But I got out of bed. I've taken phone calls. I'm stronger than I think. Why can't I remember that? By doing, there is strength.