I should have been an actress, getting paid to pretend.
The "black dog" is haunting me again and I am doubting my strength to repel his advances this time. Doubting, even, my desire to care.
I am tired of myself. Indeed, do I even know myself?
Do I really want to?
Outward appearance reflects strong... survivor. Inside, I know differently.
I hide. I barricade and retreat. The walls around me grow thicker.
I will let no one inside. Ever.
They would be disappointed and leave quickly. My image tarnished.
My self shamed.
In a post from February 8, a commenter left these words:
"though we struggle to become what we know we are...
we sometimes act to confirm what we believe we are.
I have read her words hundreds of times since.
What I continue to struggle with is figuring out the difference... or, perhaps, accepting the difference... between what I know and what I believe I am.
They seem to overlap. Confusion reigns. And, I don't particularly like the specifics of either, anyway.
Depression chips away at life. The reasons can be elusive, even non-existant.
That probably does not make sense to many people. Especially those who confuse clinical depression with self-pity, whining, pouting.
I do not have... I have not had... a bad life.
Still, the shadows creep over me at times.
Offered advice has included, "Just get up and do what you have to do!".
Depression short-circuits that command.
Will this mood pass, as the many others have?
Will I be a better or different person when this finally fades away?
Swirling within myself.
Waste of time.
Waste of oxygen.
You don't know me.
...I don't want to know myself.