Blackness

Oh, wow.  Yesterday and today have knocked me down to my knees.  I don’t know how to get up.  An event occurred that I wanted so much to fix, and I couldn’t.  The person I love is struggling and I feel like it is my fault, my own uselessness an anchor around his neck.  Now I review my current existence and I am not impressed.

I struggle with low self-esteem.  At times I feel like this is an excuse, and I should be able to just forget about it and focus on life.  I am a loser.  I’m afraid.  The effort it takes to leave my house in the morning is astronomical.  Every gaze, every encounter, I can hear the voices saying “eww, why does she allow herself to look like that.  She’s worthless, I’d never want to have anything to do with her.  I hold my head down and only make eye contact when necessary.  I am ashamed of who I am.  I could have been someone worthwhile, but I imploded.

My head is full of black corridors.  The thoughts that swirl through them are like sticky black oil.  Any brightness is enveloped by them.  I try so hard to pretend that it isn’t so, but all my life is affected by this darkness.

I’m trying to explain where I am right now.  I am tired of fighting with the darkness.  I just want to rest.  I want to sleep under my blanket and not come out.  I don’t care if I’ve showered, brushed my hair, or had more than coffee in the morning.  Later in the day, oh…  This is when the eating demons come out and take over my mind.  It feels so much better when I eat…  At first, it is a symphony of tastes.  Then it becomes automatic.  I shovel food in and don’t taste it.  Finally, I’ve eaten so much that I am sick.  I deserve it.  I am an animal who has no self-control and the pain that I feel reminds me of this. 

I am fat.  No one wants to look at me and no one sees beyond that fat.  I am stupid, I have nothing to contribute to any conversation or project.  I am unstable.  I can’t think coherently or work with others without falling into an exhibition of extreme emotion, irrational.  What use am I?

I know my doctors have little respect for me as well.  They are good, they are professional. They try to help me, but it must get tiring to work with someone who is beyond meaningful help.  I ask my doctors if I will ever get better.  So far all have danced around that question.  They say I will improve, but I know that after that improvement I will dive into the trench of depression again.  I hold onto them for hope, but I know that the answers to my illness are only partially in their hands.  I must want this, but I get SO TIRED.

I’m not going to end this with sunshine and puppy dogs.  My mind has been up and down for years.  I worry I have lost intelligence.  I don’t let people close because I know they will reject me.  I write this blog because I know I am relatively anonymous.  It would be so easy to slide out of this world and not be missed.  Something keeps me from it.  I have a tenuous hold on this world.  It may be my children or my faith, I don’t know.  All I know is that I am here, and each day is excruciatingly painful.

I never share these feelings, except maybe with my husband.  I try not to do it often because the burden he has had to carry with my illness is colossal.  I can’t give him anymore.  I’m ashamed to give my doctors anymore.  I couldn’t bear the looks I might get if I told them what does go through my mind.  I only share in part.

I am fat, untalented, not bright, lazy, fearful, and without purpose.  I hide from any opportunity that might help me rise out of that.  I don’t know if anyone else has these feelings.  I despise those feelings and I despise myself.  Usually, I am able to write from a different place, the one that fights these feelings and embraces her faith.  She is part of me too, however, this blackness is always held at bay.  I look to find the positive despite it.  These past few days the shadows have overcome me.  This is when I don’t know if I can extricate myself from the mire that lives so deep.  I want to be left alone.  I want to burrow into my safe place and grieve who I am and who I might have been.  I hate my illness.  I hate not being able to overcome it.  Mostly I am tired of dragging myself through life.  I will continue, though.  I don’t know why, but at the core of me is a fighter.  I don’t know what use I can have in life, but I must be here for it to metamorphosize. 

I’m sorry for the darkness of this entry.  As with the happy lessons I learn from putting pen to paper (or keyboard to word), I will also reread this entry in a few weeks, hopefully with new eyes.  Sometimes that “wow” moment is therapeutic and soothing, and I can lift my head a little higher.