A to-do list with one static item on it that I cannot bring myself to complete, no matter how many times I open the file and keep it there in the corner of my eye, I cannot find the impetus to do the rewrites and complete the Bruntwood process so it can sit uncomfortably at the back of my mind til October, when they announce the winners.
Logically, it all boils down to - if you don't enter, you can't win, but at least if you do enter, you have a tiny, smidgey smear of a chance something could happen. I am a great fan of logic, logic makes my world go round, makes all my issues and stupid things make sense, to me at least.
Other things on the to-do list, of course. Eating lunch rather than Pringles and those exciting new Cadbury's chocolate bars with the space dust and jelly beans in. Doing a second load of washing. Leaving the house.
There is a reason to leave the house, a wonderful, marvellous reason but I still don't want to go.
For all the logic in my personality, in my soul, I don't have a handle on the depression (no possessive terms here, sounds far too much like I'm showing off, parading it around. "Oh, you have depression, do you? Like hell you do. Fuck off."
Therapist or doctor asks "How do you cope [with the low moods]?"
"I just sort of get on with it."
I don't. I wish I could sit there with the duvet over my head in a darkened room, or go for a run in the sunshine (there is sunshine, remarkably.) It's just there, isn't it? It comes and goes. It was good for a while - a low hum, barely noticeable apart from the occasional pang.
Then there was a thing, and crying, and two weeks that were a mixture of avoiding calling the therapist and calling him but getting voicemail and still not hearing from him three weeks later which can't be good. I don't know what to do. I could have taken the drugs when the gp offered them, I should be doing my work books but ever since reading one made me cry, I can't bear to. Cannot bear to. I can't treat myself, because I will just avoid doing it.
The blog is, I suppose, a form of therapy - I come here when the physical pain threatens, puke it all out onto the internet, and feel a little better.
But still, logic is there, waiting behind everything for the perfect moment to tap me on the shoulder and point out that no matter what I say to myself during the regular, boring day-to-day stuff, the truth is the less palatable statements. "You are unlovable.""People do not want to be friends with you." "You cannot hold down a job, because you are not personable in the slightest." (These things all closely related, I know). "You don't inspire, or therefore deserve love, or happiness - you have done nothing to work for it." "Your work is sub-par, no matter what people may say to appease you." "Your friends merely tolerate you, like a civic duty."
And it feels pathetic, but it also feels true. I feel the world is passing me by, but equally, does not want me to participate. So you creep ever closer to Those Bad Thoughts, although you're too scared to do yourself damage, you can clearly picture the calm, Zen equilibrium you would surely possess if you smashed your face into your bedroom wall, your fist into the door, or placed your hand deliberately onto the red ring of the hob.
But explaining the why, the how, the reasons behind your self mutilation wouldn't wash. And if they section you for things like that, I would only feel anxious and guilty that I was taking up a space better needed by someone with actual, deep-rooted psychological disturbances which need the full attention of medical professionals.
I can't get over the guilt. And I'm overreacting, aren't I? I don't think anyone's reading this, even though someone said they had. That's fine. No one wants to listen to my self-indulgent wankery, and I don't blame them at all.
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