Being depressed is...complicated. It's easy in some ways and difficult in others. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend this particular 'analysis' so to speak. I've spent the past couple of days meandering through various stages of that. Getting up has been...difficult. Doing anything productive? Not happening. My eating habits have gone to hell, my sleep pattern is completely disrupted and I find it difficult to move faster than a snail. If I managed to get up to do something, it was always slow and with a limp, because somehow being depressed makes everything hurt more, even physically, which in this case means my already-pained hip.
It's been that kind of week for me. It's had it's bright moments, too, but they've been drowned by the overwhelming amount of numbness. The weirdest thing is that I know I did this to myself. I've gotten good at understanding where my moods come from and regulating them. And I don't want this to stop. In some sick way, I'm enjoying floating around in a sea of self-loathing. I don't really want to be functional...I just want to lie here and look at pictures of how my life will never be on the internet. That's just been the course of the past three days for me.
And then something interesting happened while I was pulling dog hair meticulously out of the rug. Sitting there on the floor, putting the entirety of the small amount of energy I could muster into pulling fur out of the rug where it was so comfortably lodged, I hit the bottom of the Hyperbole and a Half analogy. I hit the point of "I don't care." It doesn't matter that my life could fall apart at any moment because that's always the case, even though it doesn't usually feel like it. I had this brilliant realization that nothing was going to last forever. A sort of "this too shall pass" moment, expect with less hope and more relief.
So no, I don't care. I don't care that people hold the opinion that I'm a terrible person because of reasons which are perfectly valid. I don't care that people know so much more about certain aspects of my life than anybody ever needs to. I don't care that this might not last forever, because that's not at all how I walked into it and I don't know why I started thinking it might. I don't care that I'm bitter and jealous and arrogant and flawed in so, so many more ways.
I'm not perfect. I'm never going to be perfect. I fuck up. Often. Just like any other human being. And sometimes my mistakes are small and sometimes they're really not. But they don't define me. They don't make me a terrible person. They don't mean I'm not capable of having friends or being happy. Because of my flaws, I am no better and no worse than anybody else. It doesn't matter what people think of them.
And somehow that makes me feel better. Because even though I still feel like shit about myself in many ways, it's just me. I could be okay just staying here alone for the rest of my life. And it's been a really long time since I've felt secure enough in myself to say that. So no, I'm not really okay. But yes, I am feeling better. That's enough. I don't need to be more okay right now.
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