Today I’m feeling the low-level apathy I’ve come to associate with my particular brand of depression. I know what I “should” be working on—even what I want to be working on—but good luck trying to get me to do it.
On days like today I’m much more likely to over-sleep, binge some show I may or may not care about, or, if I’m lucky, escape the house and take some action that helps get me out of my head.
I’m not even sure what caused it—nor am I ever really. I didn’t do anything specific to bring it on, but the dissatisfaction weighs heavy on my mind. And right next to it sits a version of me reminding myself I’ll never do anything about it. That it will always be there in some form or another. No matter what I do.
Because everything about me feels like a contradiction.
I want to travel, but I don’t want to miss out on time with my loved ones I might regret later.
I want to write, but I can’t get myself to do the work.
I’m spontaneous and controlled, someone who needs time to think and who likes to take fast action, brave and terrified, self-aware and totally lost about who I am.
Even this post is two totally different ideas I’m trying to weave together as gracefully as I can because both sit in my head begging to be brought to life.
But how do you bring together such disparity into one being, one life, one post? Can you be happy when there will always be a part of you that’s not?
(# Of words I wrote for my manuscript today: 305)