Eighteen hours till bedtime.

If you’d rather not read depressing, largely incoherent thoughts, turn back now.

You’re still here? Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I think I have voiced this question before. Do I a) skip a week or more until I feel better or b) blog regardless of how down I feel? For weeks, perhaps months, I have doggedly avoided a. As time goes by, it becomes more and more difficult to choose b. I don’t like tainting this blog with depression (it’s why I won’t even broadcast this post on Twitter or Facebook), but right now that is all I have. I am in fact afraid of the occasional glimmer of happiness and camaraderie I get, because it makes my return to darkness that much more hurtful. I don’t know how much more I can endure.

I find myself becoming more and more numb emotionally. I still have feelings. I love, I crave, I hope. And these feelings are so intense, that I have had to render myself numb lest I go on a hysteric rampage. When I wake up every morning, all I see is eighteen hours till bedtime. At this point, blogging is not so much about discipline, and more about getting me one or two hours closer to rest. A last resort to try and let out some of this poison.

Often I try to keep my mind numb, but games cannot do it all the time. And that is pretty much all I have. I cannot go out, I cannot watch movies, for I am broke. I have nothing. Often it seems like all I can do is watch the hours waste away. I used to love the morning, but now I sigh in relief at the dark of night.

Going on Facebook is torture. I can’t but see everyone else’s seemingly happy life and posts chock full of comments of sympathy and cheer, and wonder why I can’t have that. And yet another part of me doesn’t want it. I don’t want it. I want people away, for I feel poisoned and I do not wish to taint their pretty lives. I do sound off on Twitter from time to time. Where nobody listens.

To my knowledge, there are people who care. But my need for sympathy and hugs is getting so overwhelming, there is no single person on this planet that could help me without neglecting their own lives, duties and happiness. This much I know though: people around me are happy, driven, cared for and snuggled. They have friends who care about them, friends to hang out with, friends to share memories with.

Seek help? There is nowhere for me to seek help. I need too much help, more than any person could be expected to give. It is too large a burden and I cannot let anyone help shoulder it. It is beyond their capacity. No. Go on with your life. Be merry, be happy. Whatever happens to me is not for you to be concerned about. I have nowhere to run, no one to turn to, and in truth, if I am still standing, it is largely because if I fell I would have nowhere to land.

I am never alone? Oh, sometimes it is easier to believe. Once upon a time, about a year and a half ago and up to a few months back, I would log onto one or two of my chats and I would always have a conversation. I would have company, and laughter. Now most of those who talk to me are either gone or absent, or too burdened by their own lives and their own suffering. I don’t blame them in the least. I am happy to let them sort out their lives, and seek out their happiness, without me being a burden. But right now I cannot stand the sight of an empty chat window like I have done for days on end, a constant reminder that I have no one to talk to.

I don’t blame them either. I drove them, or most of them, away. I did this to myself.

Be strong? What is the point of strength if there is nowhere to direct it to? I am strong, I am passionate, but I have no outlet for that strength and for that passion. I am stagnant, and for months at least, I will remain stagnant or so it seems. I wish I were wrong, but I seem to keep sabotaging my chances at happiness. Sometimes willingly, sometimes unwittingly. I am not very old yet, but I feel like all my life has been a waste, and I wonder if I will ever get it right.

You may see me around the internet, or you may not. But if the blog posts stop coming for one or more weeks, if you no longer see me in the usual places for a day or more. Know that it simply means that depression finally got to me. I may resurface at times, though I am not sure I want to. Plummeting back down gets more painful every time. It’s like there’s cracks that get bigger and bigger with every crash. And I really, really feel like I am getting ever so close to my limit.

Oh I wish to be there for those I care about. Making them laugh and making them feel loved and cherished is, believe it or not, among my top priorities in life. But at this time, from what I see, I am either expendable, or a burden. I cannot feel the flow of love or friendship. And I am beginning to think that I am too far gone. It happens, does it not? Some battles are won, some are lost. Some get their dreams, some do not. If I end up being a casualty, may it be so.

Forgive me if you think me a fool for feeling so downtrodden and weakened. But, rational or not, right or wrong, these are my feelings. Know also that I blame no one for my current state. I did this to me. I murdered the future that I once had, shattered what I once thought was the foundations of my life. I did so by my hand. I did so willingly, and I only regret the pain I caused to others. This is only so those who did endure reading these lines, will know why I seem to be sinking so fast. Keeping afloat is painful, and oblivion often looks so, so sweet.

1121 words. A small victory. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed, to let two more hours waste away, and get that much closer to bedtime.


One Response to “Eighteen hours till bedtime.”

  1. […] life kept sending my psyche in freefall… until at last it happened. I broke down. ¬†One last post rife with depression signaled my descent into a pit of despair (metaphorically […]

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