Anxiety is usually what gets me these days. It is the demon I live with on a daily basis. Depression does rear its ugly head in the winter as SAD takes effect, and every once in awhile I’ll get down for a little while, but for the most part I don’t get depressed a whole lot. Until recently, anyway.
The last couple of weeks depression has attacked me. I have been painfully stumbling through life in that dark place, and I don’t know why. That’s the thing about mental illness—there doesn’t have to be a reason. It just is. It just happens. And I hate it! I hate feeling this way. I don’t want to feel like I’m worthless. I don’t want to feel like I’m inadequate. I don’t want to feel like I’m not enough. I don’t want to feel like I’m a terrible person. I try. I try hard to do what I’m supposed to. I try to feel good. I try to feel happy. But I don’t. And I wish there was a reason. If there was a reason I could fix it, or at least have a starting point to work with. But there’s no starting point. And there’s no ending point. It’s just a circle that sometimes, luckily, is in the light, and sometimes, inexplicably, rolls on in utter darkness.