Now that I've slept, I thought I should come back to this. It's not my intent to use this blog as a journal for every crazy, self-centered, or otherwise narcissistic thought I have. It's just depression. But it feels like more sometimes. And those times, I feel like I should write about it to help...get it out. Maybe fight it. Make it go away. But it seems that writing about it just makes it more real. Harder to fight, harder to push through and ignore.
Today I'm wondering about how much I do it to myself. Nonna does that. She has some genuine problems, but she also craves the attention. If she hears about something or reads about something, then all of the sudden, she has every symptom. And some of them even show up. That's the power of the mind. Psychosomatic diseases. You're depressed, you're hurting mentally, so you start aching everywhere. You read a list of side-effects of a new medication you're nervous about taking, and suddenly you have all of the symptoms.
The mind is powerful. I've faced hard times before. I've faced stress, and pain, and loss. And all those times, through my faith and through my own force of will, I pulled myself up, and kept on going. Kept moving forward. I got over whatever it was, and found motivation, and reason, and discipline to keep me moving ahead.
Why can't I now? What's so wrong that when I dig down deep inside myself, to find that same quality, that same ability that used to come easily, that instead I find...nothing? No reserve. No motivation. No "shut up crying and get over it." I just find...nothing.
I still have faith. I still have knowledge. I still have desire. But putting those things to work is what's causing me so much trouble.
So how much am I doing to myself? How much is me just being a lazy bastard that doesn't want to do anything, so I'm making up all these reasons not to? How many of my problems are psychosomatic, or just plain psycho? People love me, people care about me, people worry about me. There are people that need my help. And when I see that, when I focus on that, some part of who I used to be comes through. I don't matter anymore, I want to help that person.
Like with momma the other day. She was upset and hurting and I wanted to help her. For an entire afternoon, I felt a bit like my old self. And when we were all sitting around talking and Nana started getting upset, I was there for her, and I felt a bit like my old self. Then I slept. The next day, I was still okay, I was still riding a bit of that...whatever it was. But by the end of the day, it was gone. I wanted to crawl into bed and hide under my blankets and not ever come out. That's still how I feel.
So what does that make me? Some sort of...thing that leeches off of other people's bad moods? That uses other people's hurt to forget my own? That's not right. That's almost terrible.
I don't know anymore. Maybe that's what bothers me the most. I've always had plans, ideas, understanding. There's so much that I don't know, that I'm not sure about, that I can't understand. Maybe that's why I can't get past these things. Because they're taking away that most fundamental part of myself that makes me who I am.
My creativity is starting to leave, too. The last three days, I haven't had hardly a creative thought in my mind. My desire and enjoyment of doing things I love to do is slipping away. I know that's a sign of a depressive episode. Maybe that's where I'm headed. Again.
Or maybe I'm just doing it to myself.
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