Oh, Septicemia

If there ever were a disease that lived on long after the body has died, I think that disease would be depression.  It’s been about eight months since I perished and my sadness hasn’t let up yet.  For whatever reason, I haven’t crossed over to the other side and so you’d think I’d have some sort of purpose.  You would think that purpose would make itself known.  And yet I am emptier than ever.  And it’s perplexing to me.  Why am I here?  What am I supposed to be doing?  Life doesn’t come with a manual and apparently death does not, either.  I guess I just thought maybe I’d gain some perspective, that maybe I’d see the world through blood-tinted glasses, that something would finally make sense but I am simply more and more confused each day.  It’s as if depression is a parasite that has latched on to not only my body but my mind and everything that encompasses who I am.  It has dug its claws so deep into who I am that it goes beyond the physical.  It has even followed me into death.  And, well, that blows.

I feel very uncomfortable even using the world “depression.”  It’s one of those words that’s flung around without much consideration, much like “love” and “baby.”  Do we really realize the weight of these words?  I think not.  People get depressed when they miss this week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  That’s not depression.  That’s inconvenience.  People get depressed when they find a severed finger in their soup.  That’s not depression.  That’s just nasty.  People get depressed when they have to park at the end of a parking lot, have chapped lips, can’t zip up their jeans anymore, spill their coffee, etc.  These are not situations in which depression is a proper emotional reaction.  Obviously, if you’re truly depressed, any one of these situations would send you spiraling into a coma underneath your bed sheets.  Then again, so would anything else, even things most people would consider to be good.  But to say, “Well, I’m depressed because McDonald’s ran out of fries today” is not valid.  And I have to admit that I am guilty of using the word “depressed” over things that aren’t really depressing.  And I think a lot of other people do as well.  And when you overuse a word, it loses it’s power.  And depression is too powerful to play around with like that.

I don’t know if I’m really depressed.  I mean, as long as I have a Keeping up with Kardashians marathon on and a plate of pasta, I can make it through the day.  There are people who can’t get out of bed, who can’t stop crying, who can’t find any joy in any thing.  And I actually often feel that way myself but I suppose I’m not depressed enough to not be able to fight those kinds of feelings.  I can still function.  So maybe I’m not absolutely depressed but just incredibly sad.  Or maybe I’m just mildly depressed.  I think we all have feelings of depression but when do those feelings turn into something more substantial?  How do differentiate between a feeling and an absolute state of being?  What if I’m not depressed at all but just a big whiner?  Or what if my whining is justified because I am depressed?  How do I find out which is which?  I’m really not trying to be one of those people who cops out and blames his emotions and behaviors on depression.  It’s like, “Well, don’t blame me.  I’m depressed.  I can’t help it.”  I know I should take responsibility for my actions and my miseries.  But what if I really can’t help it?  Maybe I’m not to blame.  Maybe I’ve been unnecessesarily hard on myself for far too long over something that I can't really control. 

It’s just so frustrating not knowing who I am and why I am.  What causes people to be susceptible to depression?  Chemicals?  Hormones?  Weakness?  Is it some sort of mental disorder or some kind of deformity?  Is it just more proof that I’m defective, damaged?  If so, what does that mean for me?  Will things ever change on their own or will things always stay the same.  Will they progressively get worse?  Is medication my only answer or do I need some sort of divine intervention?  And how would that be possible when depression is the devil that makes me doubt and deny? 

I do often wonder what the world would be like medicated.  I’ve heard some good (it calms you), some bad (it makes you manic) but I’ve mostly heard it just numbs you.  I guess that could be good or bad, depending on your desired result.  As much as I say I’m numb already, I’m really not.  In fact, I feel things as if I don’t have any skin or protective barrier, as if every single word and person and image and sensation goes straight to my nerves.  And I don’t want to be so sensitive but I’m not really trying to be numb, either.  We say we’d rather be numb than feel the pain we are in but I think that is only said out of a response to that pain.  We say a lot of things when we are hurting that we might not necessarily mean otherwise.  We’ll squirm and squeal to get away from a negative feeling, to escape a sucky situation, to release ourselves from catching fire.  But, really, if we all had a choice, we wouldn’t want to feel numb at all.  We all want to feel happiness, peace and satisfaction. 

All I really know is that I've been miserable for a long time.  Throughout the majority of my life, I’ve been pretty unhappy, as if some kind of sadness set in like an infection and I simply haven’t been able to sweat out the fever, to shake the symptoms of melancholy.  I can't truly define it but I know that something is definitely wrong.  I’ve missed out on a lot of vital human experiences and I believe that’s why I not only feel so sad, but so disconnected from other people.  I can’t comprehend relationships.  I can’t fathom love.  I don’t understand connections but I know they are necessary.  And now it’s an uphill climb to try to attain them with simultaneously trying to overcome my disdain for my circumstances, my location and myself.

The first step is to purge this parasite, to rid myself of the regret.

Maybe I should try to vomit.