Razortalk and Depression and the Happy Ending

A large part of being disabled, for me at least, is dealing with the depression. The crippling depression, if I may be so bold (I may). The horrid, mean Thing In My Head which makes it so difficult to get out of bed, to stop crying, to make a phone call...anything. That Thing In My Head was on a roll today, and I don't know how many minutes I spent in contemplation of veins and sharp things, but when I caught myself I forced my sad ass out of bed and onto the couch to write here, instead of writing there with the wrong kind of ink.

The razors were my weapon of choice for a long, long time. The lack of any emotion other than crushing sadness for so very, very long warped my head into thinking that, even if I didn't off myself, at least I could feel something even if it wasn't the end of my existence. That started when I was 11, and didn't stop until a few years ago. The cutting, that is; the depression is still here, every day, with no abatement in sight.

It is a good thing that I have developed this sense of self-control. I didn't have it for a long time, and would encourage rather than discourage myself to get out the blood box (where I kept my stash of sharp things). Most days it's easy; I just turn on the teevee, or call a family member, but days like today? They are goddamn difficult. I don't actually want to see or speak to anyone, I don't want to go out in the sun and be all fucking smiley, and I certainly don't want to do a friggin' thing except crawl back into bed and try to sleep until it passes...but here's the secret: it never passes. It never goes away. It never ceases - it just changes the volume. Today, it goes to eleven.

I have a list of things I need from the local shops, of which my prescriptions are a top priority, obviously. The zoloft is supposed to help with the fibromyalgia and the depression, but it doesn't. It pacifies everyone else. A while back, I'd submitted a postsecret about how I only took the pills to make everyone else feel better, that they didn't do a goddamn thing to help me. I'm beginning to be concerned that it is happening again, that these pills aren't working.

Maybe I need sun. Maybe I need smiles. Maybe I need a break from this apartment. Maybe I need to stop this song from going 'round in my head with the lyrics my brain came up with:

"Another Saturday stuck in this damn apartment; I never get out and I don't get paid; how I wish I had someone to talk to; I'm in an awful way."

The thing is, though, that I don't actually want company; at least, the Thing In My Head doesn't. It wants me to stay sad, to keep crying, to crawl back under the covers and let it win. It wants to make the pain so loud that it drowns out everything except morbidity.

List time, kiddos:

• I am surrounded by my books; they who have been my friends when I shut everyone else out. 
• I am surrounded (slightly higher on the walls) by my art, which has carried me through countless Bad Days.
• I am loved.
• I am not going to succumb to this crapfest of emotions. Nope; not gonna do it.
• I have to pee.
• I'm hungry.

*And Now For Something Completely Different*

Well, I peed. I decided that I'm going to call my mommala and get out of this apartment, at least for a few hours. I'll eat some brekkie, take my meds, and tell my pain and depression and the Thing In My Head to fuck off for the day. I'll paint if I can, or crochet, something to keep me occupied until my husband gets home at bedtime tonight. I'll sketch out the cake design for my family's annual 4th of July reunion, and I'll laugh. Goddammit, I will laugh today because it really, truly is the best medicine.

Some days it's really, really hard to stay positive, but I do. And I will. Because I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, and shit; if I made it thirty four years feeling this way, I can make it another thirty four.