Inertia.
I’m on the tail end of my Christmas break. I’ve been sleeping regularly, keep the same hours. I have chores to do. I wanted to polish a pair of hiking boots. I have towels in the washer that need to be dried. I was going to take a shower, but now I don’t feel like it. Now, I feel nothing but the urge to give in to the deep blue slow static that is somewhere between a mild ache and that really relaxed feeling you get during and after a good stretch that is buried deep within the marrow of my bones, within the deep tissues of my muscles, that drip like slow candle wax off my ligaments, a feeling of tenderness in the joints after a severe flu or fever.
I just want to give in and sleep. I felt so bad, I called my mother over, and apologized to her, because she’s in the other room watching tv by herself. I explained how I felt. She told me not to worry. I don’t like doing this, but today I swallowed my pride and asked if she could bring me a banana and some walnuts because I haven’t eaten today.
I’m going to try and get up soon, get water, take my medication, and make the right-now-arduous-seeming climb up the stairs I take everyday, and lie in my bed, and wait for oblivion to take me.
This isn’t a cry for pity.
This isn’t an attempt at getting attention.
I am simply reporting this. I am a reporter, describing what it feels like to battle depression for those who do not know, or cannot understand.
This is just another dispatch, sent from the world of depression, out into the ether, hoping that somebody will read this, hoping that somebody will understand, or not feel alone.
Too tired to type anymore. Too much effort. I’m done.
marcwritesmoorewords 