Are any of us truly who we say we are? Beneath the uniforms, labels and names, who are we? Wandering through the monotony of life, waking to another day of ‘different’, that is really all the same. The same hours go by and the same tasks are done. Food is prepared, then eaten, then a mess is left to be cleaned up. Much like our lives, so much mess seems to be left to clean up. Even joy seems to leave a mess behind. And when you are depressed, all you can do is see the mess. All you can do is want to sleep life away so that you aren’t bombarded by the monotonous mess of life.
I’ve been in my layer two of depression for days. Stuck in what seems to be the slowest ferris wheel of my mind. High up, and helpless. Swinging in the wind. Hating how my stomach flips when I look down, but content with the possibility of the whole thing crashing to the ground. Content with feeling like anything but an alien any more. Screaming, but not making a sound. Being able to see for miles and wishing that I could enjoy the view, but all I see at that height is more sadness, and more pain. More animals without a voice. More of a world that is just so painful and angry.
I feel physically sick when I try to do anything. Going to the store is a mission I would rather not have to battle through. But things need to get done. People rely on me. So many people rely on me. But do you want to know what my mind focuses on when I do something as simple as go to the store? I think about the minutes I will have to be in the noise; the massive amounts of garbage that is made to package shit in; the kids that are screaming all around me that are sad and I don’t know why and I can’t do anything about it; how dizzy I am, and I don’t know why; seeing new couples buying house accessories who are just going to be divorced in a few years and will be bitching and complaining about who will get the friggin’ garlic press (like who the fuck even uses a garlic press?); the constant beeping of the cash registers and the minutes the cashiers must count down until they don’t have to listen to it anymore; trying to act normal when I bump into someone I know – and hating the stupid small talk that is all just total bullshit; searching, searching, searching for something to make me smile, something to cause a positive endorphin to release, and being so overly aware of the fact that even if I find something that will make me smile, it will only last for a second and I will be right back in hell again. Fun times right? Fuck.
Mental illness and injury fucking suck. I feel like I am in a jail. I feel like I am in hell. I feel like an alien who just doesn’t understand why anyone would build a ferris wheel in the first place. I just want to be better! I just want to be a happy mom! I just want to be ok! I’m really trying.
Paramedic Nat 