One second, I'm fine. Relaxed, and, if not happy, not upset. The next second? Bitterly angry. Or sad to beat the bleakest blues man. Or-- and my least favorite-- uncertain about EVERYTHING. Couldn't make a choice between French fries and tater tots if my very life depended on it.
Then I shift to something else. No apparent trigger, no rhyme, no reason. All of which tells me that, whether I like it or not, it's time to tell the counselor I'm seeing that I'm maybe fighting depression, on top of all the other shit I don't want to be dealing with. I've got so many of the symptoms that even I can't deny it, anymore.
I don't want to be suffering from depression. That's something that a couple of relatives that I don't like much have suffered in the past, and I dislike the idea of being like any of my uncles but Ed, who isn't depressive.
Hell, I really don't want to be autistic, even the apparently mild variety that I am. Or agoraphobic, or paranoid, or ANY OF THIS CRAP!
You know what the worst of it is? I mean, seriously? It's something that I know-- intellectually-- is damned stupid, and yet... my emotions refuse to get the message, and I sit around feeling ashamed of all of this shit. Deeply, mind-numbingly ashamed. Like I've committed some horrible, awful goddamned crime, something like... shit, I don't know. Maybe like I stand accused of "twelve counts of murder in the first degree, fourteen counts of armed theft of Federation property, twenty-two counts of piracy in high space, eighteen counts of fraud, thirty-seven counts of rape... and one moving violation."
Okay, that probably wasn't funny. Sorry. Just trying to deal with this, and probably doing it wrong.
Point is, I feel ashamed. And guilty. And ashamed of feeling guilty, and guilty about feeling ashamed, and I guess this is one of those vicious cycles. Oh. Joy.
I'm trying to get past it. Failing pretty badly, most of the time, sure, but trying. It's making me feel like Sisyphus got off easy, which is dumb, because there are people dealing with this (and far better than I am) all the time.
I want all this crap to go away and leave me alone. I want to sleep like a normal person, not three hours one night, four the next, then two, then four again, etcetera and so on, until I finally give in and take an Ambien, sleep ten hours-- and have some of the most SERIOUSLY *&#%ed up dreams in the history of humankind. (At least, I freaking HOPE SO, because if dreaming about flying planes you steer with your feet [like runner sleds] over deserts of dried spaghetti, all in order to drop super-glue bombs on a group of human traffickers who specialize in air-traffic controllers is NOT *&#%ed up, then we're probably doomed as a race.) I want to be able to understand why, exactly, Monty Python is supposed to be funny, why people watch reality TV, and-- no, never mind, I don't really want to know that one-- why it is that it's a problem for anyone that there are girls who are gamers, why anyone thinks the Three Stooges are funny, how it is that Kevin Anderson keeps getting published, why Deadpool isn't considered a villain, and how it is that country music has fans.
I have a funny feeling that I'm screwed on most of those issues. But if someone were to come up with a non-drug cure for insomnia, that'd be a nice damned start.
So, yeah. Depression isn't much fun, and mood swings actively SUCK.
I suppose that's all for today. I feel like I just ran a marathon through a sea of Jello, so it's gonna have to be.