Battling depression is an interesting and frustrating endeavor. Most people ask "why" someone is depressed. If it were that simple, I wouldn't be depressed. I don't choose to feel this way. I don't like the sudden urge to break down crying for no apparent reason. Make no mistake, there are no thoughts of harming myself or anyone else. I have never had those thoughts. Those are too extreme and irrational to me. That wouldn't solve the problem. This is the puzzle I have taken apart and put back together hundreds of times in my head only to find out I am missing some pieces. Not only am I missing pieces, my puzzle looks nothing like the picture on the box.
People associate depression with sadness. I am not sad. I was sad when my pet rabbit died. I wasn't sad when my dog died, I was relieved for her and for me. I wasn't sad when I went through my divorce, I was disappointed in myself. I was sad when my grandmother died. I wasn't sad when my stepmother died. I can differentiate between sadness and something far deeper than being sad.
My job is to identify and solve problems, but what do I do when I can't identify and solve my own problems? It's not a feeling of hopelessness or helplessness. It's more like a feeling of emptiness. A feeling like I have nothing and everything at the same time. If zero was an emotion, I would be zero. Neither positive nor negative, just existing. It's not a feeling of I have nothing to live for. I have plenty to live for, I just don't know what those things are. More importantly, I don't know if those things matter more to me or to someone else. Should they matter to anyone, including me?
I don't have a spouse or children. Maybe that's part of the problem. I think some part of me wants to live through their imaginary accomplishments. Some part of me wants my legacy to live on in some way. Who will know what I have accomplished? What have I really accomplished? Why does that even matter? Does it matter? Should it matter? If it does matter, should accomplishments really be the driving force behind living? That hardly seems like a purpose.
Material items are meaningless to me and I detest people that brag about them. That makes me wonder if accomplishments are similarly meaningless. Am I trying to achieve some form of recognition and bragging rights with my accomplishments? This is an interesting proposition considering I don't talk about my accomplishments. I don't tell people about what I have done. That feels like bragging to me, which again, I detest.
I have had people tell me that I like the attention I get at the gym. I hate getting attention. I hate the fact that people even see me at all. I don't want to be seen or heard. I have been that way since I was a child because not being seen or heard is safe. I just want to occupy space, but remain invisible. If I could have a superpower, it would be invisibility. Flying would be a close second.
Making money and traveling aren't accomplishments. Those are tasks. Graduating college is a task. Getting a promotion or raise at work are both tasks. Retiring young is a task. They are a result of my knowledge and effort. Working is a task. Effort is a task. I don't view those as accomplishments, but maybe I should. Maybe these things would help give me the validation I seem to be looking for.
The thought of death doesn't bother me, but I think there is a subconscious dread of dying alone. Who will be there when I die and why? Will whoever is there actually care or will they be there because they feel obligated? I think there is a part of me that questions how genuine people really are when they express themselves. Do they really care or are the things they say just out of social acceptance? We are expected to offer condolences when someone dies. What if I really don't care? It's not socially acceptable to say that I don't care about their loss. Their loss is meaningless to me. It makes no difference in my life. I realize that is selfish, but I am a selfish person. I openly admit that to people. I don't try to hide my disinterest in people and their random musings.
As my most recent episode of depression has dragged on, I have stopped looking for answers. Some days are better than others for no apparent reason. I have tried to pinpoint triggering events or even people. People in general bother me. I don't trust them. I don't enjoy having to consider how they feel. I feel like I am constantly manipulating people to bend to my will.
There is a part of me that thinks I am struggling with my own mortality. Not in the sense that I will die, I know I will, but in the sense the my body is slowly deteriorating. I can't physically do the things I want to do. My body is rebelling. Maybe from years of use or abuse. Maybe because that is the circle of life. Either way, I am having a hard time accepting it. I believe my body will do what I want it do just because I have the will to make it so.
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