How It Is

In some ways, depression is the groovy old family cat of your best friend. It holds no prejudice of class, gender or education.  It isn't concerned with how much you earn, how much you weigh or how many things  in your life are "good". If it chooses to be your companion, it will be, regardless of whether or not you try to scare it away.

Much like that family cat of your best friend, depression is a weird and stinky old sod.

I find, once again, it is moulting on my trousers and dribbling on my shoulder.  It makes me angry. It makes me feel powerless. It makes me really, really bloody cross because I do not have time to be depressed. I have far too much to do.  Damn it, I don't have the hours to sit being maudlin and annoyed by how indescribably rubbish my attempts at being a human are.

I have no idea why I have depression. I feel like an inveterate fraud for having it. I live a relatively easy life, and although it hasn't been without its less easy periods I am still alive.

I hate the feeling of not being able to cope, but not knowing what it is I can't cope with. I hate the wanting to cry but not being able to. I hate the way that my brain throws open my carefully prepared, anotated with mental post it note boxes of shit and throws it on the floor so I have to scrabble through it like a fly searching for shit to understand what the problem is this time.

I resent having feelings. I resent feeling despair. I resent that my brain has wibbles that I cannot control and am sometimes unable to stop. I despise myself for being this pathetic. I despise myself for admitting this. I feel weak and like a victim for it.  Sometimes painting the house or double digging the garden just isn't going to cut it for me, because I don't know what I am sad about.

But this; this is how it is. This is how I am.  And for all the annoying nuances that I have as a result; for all my unending stupidity and casually moronic actions; for all my staring out of the window procrastinating and hating myself; for all the self harm I've inflicted and continue to perpetrate against my body through my idiotic relationship with food; for the ridiculous level of sensitivity that I deny I have and attempt to hide behind my rhinocerous skin; for all the abuse I put myself through because, really, I am the person that hates me the most, I wouldn't change it.  I couldn't change it, because having depression, being like this, means I can understand how and why others do the same thing.

And that; that is how it is.

Mentalism

Mentalism has returned to Wiltshire Towers.  It transpires that if I forget to take my medication for a few days, this will co-incide with a something synonymous with my depression raising its vile head and throwing me off kilter.  I will then fall into utter annoyance, and have to obsess over that synonym.  In the past, days like that have become weeks of deep funks.

I will also trot about in a withdrawal haze, which is more than a little unpleasant as well as being deeply trippy.

Thus, back to the tablets before it affects my ability to live my life in an oasis of semi organised faux-control, but perhaps with added reminders and alarms to take the bloody things.

Why?

My question today is why?

Why, when I have been on mentalism tablets for three years on and off, when I've had counselling for a decade, when  I have done everything I can to escape the black dog am I still being chased by it?  Why can't I fucking escape it?  Why does it have me by the ankle, chewing at my clothes, when everyone else can get away from it.

Why are others, who have been on medication for a little while, had a few sessions of counselling, why are they "better"?  Why aren't I getting any better?  Why am I slowly getting worse?

Why am I so intrinsically rubbish that I can't deal with things when everyone else can?

Why, why why?

Unless of course, I am on the slow "learn those life lessons" road, which apparently will take substantially longer, where I will continue to make the same idiotic mistakes time and time again until I actually bloody learn.  Which I may well never do.  But I'm hopeful.

Why? I just am.  Why not?