This is an internal dialogue post, just a fair warning. I tend to wax a little too hard on the mopey side when I do this.

It is Oscar season. It is Oscar season, and the United States is exploding, and I’m working on projects. Lots and lots of projects. I really should drag myself away from Facebook, away from things that consume my mind and make it go on autopilot: worrying is one of those things, and stress is one of those things. I become so consumed with worry and stress that I switch off.

I have been switched off for the majority of January.

There are little blips where I resurface, like when I see someone cry, or when I cry (usually leading to an internal investigation of why I’m crying, which then switches me back off again), or sometimes when I fall asleep, or when I’m working on a project with a friend and he says, “Before we continue, can I give you a hug?” Those moments are more like little shocks that jolt me back to the present day, the present room that I’m standing in; the caffeine of the soul is not ingested through the mouth, but through the absorption of surprises. And it’s really easy to ignore depression when there are so many other things to think about.

But there is a lot this month to be depressed about. Maybe not internally, but certainly externally. I wish that there were moments where I could say that I have been actually happy this month. Not that I haven’t had happy-moments, but they are always derived from a joke that was said, or a nice thing that happened. I do not recall a single moment in which I found myself bobbing at the surface, with a contentment in my heart. Clearly I need to resurface more.

Of course, I don’t think I have a normal perspective on contentment. I enjoy a good cry. It feels good. I watch sad movies because I like feeling those emotions. It seems obvious, but crying is such a visceral thing, just like actual happiness; something that your entire body feels, though it’s not a physical feeling. I’ve had this odd obsession with sadness for years, only now it’s different. Now there’s a fear behind it, like I’ve got something bottled up inside that needs to get out. Or else, I shall become a little girl who is switched off all the time.

Maybe I have a problem. Maybe I’ve gone dry, and my body is aching for tears. I think I could get them back if I had enough time; but who has time these days? If you have time, why aren’t you using it to protest, or do a little writing, or clean your house, or make a meal so that you don’t starve yourself? But still. God knows it would be beneficial to take five minutes every day and try to pinpoint where my head is at.

I’m debating not posting this. To click “publish”, or to click “private post”… I’ve always said my blog will be honest, and I think sometimes I fear that I’m too honest. I worry that someone may misconstrue things and think I’m not okay, or at least that I’m less okay than I am, than other people who are really suffering. I don’t need to steal the limelight with over-exaggerated suffering, and I don’t need anyone’s pity; that just makes me feel gross. What I do take comfort in is if people can connect and relate to the words, and know that their experiences are not isolated. The thing is, there are so many people talking about what is wrong with the country, and what they fear will happen, that no one is talking about how they feel. They’ll talk about how it affects them, but not about how they are affected. God forbid we feel those feelings.

Ah, screw it, I’ll post it.

Depression happiness Prose