It’s worse in the evenings. I think there’s a typical view that depressed people struggle to get out of bed, and a few times in the last few weeks, that’s been the case as well. But not all the time. Maybe with the early starts that I’ve been forcing myself into for the last few years, I’ve trained that out of myself.
The middle of the day is invariably full of distractions – usually work, be it competent work, or complete fuckups. These days it seems more like a series of fuckups. Am I making more mistakes or am I just noticing them, putting a lot more stock into them than I usually would? I can’t help feel it’s a little bit of both; the ol’ memory and concentration has not been stellar for years, but it does get noticeably worse in periods of heightened depression. Maybe that’s a weakness that I need so I don’t feel like it’s my fault. And maybe that’s another argument to turn it back on myself, to give another lash to the whip, and turn this whole argument into a recursive, rhetorical mess.
My chest feels tight, like a panic attack. The joys of having turned into a biometric data geek is that I can say that my heart rate is not significantly higher than it’s been at any other resting point this afternoon, and my thoughts are pretty focused on one single thing rather than racing around faster than the Brownlee brothers in a winner-takes-Yorkshire sprint finish. So this can aptly be described as probably the most serene panic attack one could possibly have, which fits. I’m not trying to fight the bindings so much as willingly lying on the tracks in the hope one will chance past. Waiting, it feels like waiting for something inevitably horrible. Waiting for another attempt at fixing things, that will end in disappointment, because that’s what has happened, time and time again. Waiting.
Saddest part of proceedings: all out of bananas. I need bananas for the post-turbo porridge I will grimace my way through tomorrow morning, and the shop is 5 minutes away. But I’m scared to open the front door and walk over the threshold, because my feet want to take me somewhere different. That’s the pathetic truth. My mind is rebelling and it’s doing it’s damndest to drag my body with it. Can someone just deliver me some bananas?
Listening: the guy in the flat above playing his guitar, the sound of the PS3 idling, wind through the blinds; tap tap tap
Reading: TVTropes article on the Battlestar Galactica remake ‘cos I finally finished it and I love analysing sci-fi once it’s completed