I Am Not Myself These Days

Demi Lavato Is Very WiseLet’s be real, depression is no fucking joke. Depression doesn’t play. Depression doesn’t tease you that it’s going to be okay and then plunges you deeper into it. It just drags you deeper into it. It skips the teasing all together. It makes you feel worthless, like a waste of flesh, and like a waste of space. That you are consuming valuable oxygen that is better served elsewhere. I am currently in such a place. I’m in such a place, and have been for a while, that I thought I could pull myself out of it. That I shouldn’t bother anyone with how I’m feeling.

The worry and crippling anxiety of what’s to come. The crushed self-esteem of things that have come to pass. The overwhelming urge to quit everything. To run. To hide. To just give up.

My friends and family tell me to just focus on right now. Don’t think about what lies ahead, or what lies in the back. Only focus on what you can do today. I don’t do that very well. I’ve never done that very well.

I have learned about myself with the chaotic life I’ve lived, I’ve become a complete control freak. It’s all or nothing with me. I slip down one step, I’m a failure and I throw myself down the whole flight of stairs.

I easily assume leadership responsibilities. Because I don’t trust anyone to do as good of a job as I can. And when I succeed, it’s awesome. But I live in the perpetual fear I’m going to fail. This fear keeps me motivated to do the best job I can. But when shit is going tits up, I lose my fucking mind.

All because things are beyond my power to control.

My family, friends, and therapist all tell me to take care of me. I’m no good to anyone else if I don’t take care of me first. If I don’t tend to my own self-care I can’t do a good job caring for others. Here’s the catch. I’ve never had to care for others. I’ve only had to take care of me. All the time. The world’s problems are not my problems.

I am not Superman. Even he can’t be be everywhere at once.

There’s been so many comments tossed around through the years of people doubting my trustworthiness. Have enough people lose trust in you and marvel how you no longer trust yourself.

It’s an act of congress for me to go with my gut in my writing. I have to talk it out with about sixty billion people until one of them tells me something that’s workable. My mother says I’ve never needed the opinions of others. She gets upset when I seek out writers with more experience. I tell her it’s the same thing as searching Google. But really? No. No it’s not. I’m waiting for someone to cough up the info on the magic bullet I need.

Right now, I’m revising a book I will probably never sell. I’m doubting why I ever wrote the thing. The only thing keeping me going is my Editor In Chief’s encouragement not to throw out the baby with the bathwater. I’m using that as my impetus to move forward. I’m terrified what my beta readers will say after I worked through it.

This morning, I found out after I lost 25 pounds, I gained four of them back in three weeks from my nonstop binge of emotional eating. In focusing on the positive, gaining four back in three weeks is actually not bad. But now I have nine pounds to lose by GayRomLit and I gotta lose two pounds a week if I’m going to get there. It’s doable. I’ve got to believe in me.

This morning, I was bawling in my car for an hour with my Mom on the phone, and my Mom lost her crap that she couldn’t do anything for me. I told her my depression came in stages.

First, there’s the slight off kilter-ness that I struggle to get back on track.

Second, then it just snowballs and gains speed.

Third, comes the crash and complete meltdown.

Fourth, comes the self-loathing, the worthlessness, the self-hate, the feeling ugly, and the feeling fat.

Fifth, is the giving up. The not caring. The being completely out of fucks to give. And with that is the crying. All. The. Time. The crying so much you make everyone angry around you because you can’t stop fucking crying. You make yourself angry and feel like a fucking idiot for crying.

Sixth? The Sixth part is where things take the turn. This is The Rage Phase. The fact that you still have no fucks to give, but it’s the other way around. You do not give a single, solitary shit about what anyone thinks of you. You are so angry, it makes you so productive that you are determined to show them all. The Rage Phase is liberating. The Rage Phase makes you alienate everyone around you as a defense mechanism. It makes everyone leave you the fuck alone. It makes you selfish. It makes you a Grade-A Bitch. It makes you a monster. It makes you free.

I hit The Rage Phase.

God help anyone that gets in my fucking way.

One thought on “I Am Not Myself These Days

  1. […] After my depression fueled rant (was it a rant? I suppose it was!) I hit what I called The Rage Phase where I got off my ass and did […]

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