I wake up several times during the night, I am sweating, sticky and uncomfortable. I have horrid dreams, disturbing scenarios play out, for the most part involving people I know or have known and therefore handing my dreams an easy pass to plausibility.
Waking up is a RELIEF. I am glad the dreams are over. One can’t escape dreams, they are foisted upon the dreamer, whether they are desired or not (sub-conscious volition aside). In waking life at least I have some options. I usually take refuge in sleep, just not last night. Perhaps the newly sticky heat is causing some of this night strangeness.
Whilst still in the fug of just-woken-upness this morning I hear a thunderous noise, a drum, more than one drum, getting closer and beating out a solid time – thud – thud – thud – thud – then some wrenching high brass over the top of the solid beat. A march. Not had one of those down my street for a while. As the noise gets nearer my ears stiffen, trying to retreat. I haul ass to the window because this is not the kind of noise that will be ignored.
There are lots of people. Walking. The instruments are somewhere at the front of the group, out of sight by the time I reach the window. I see the remnants, two men with long brass rods propped against their right shoulders. I’ve seen these before in marches, I don’t know their name, a brass pole with something of a flourish at the top. Then there are a few men and women in clerical garb – plum-coloured flowing material - and a bishop in amongst them, flanked by other officials right and left. Finally I see a large purple banner held taut with poles. The banner is rather square and reaches a long way across the width of the road. There are a few symbols on it, a dove, predictably, as well as crosses and such like. Emblazoned in four quadrants of the purple banner are words. FAITH is one. PEACE is another. The others I don’t remember.
I watch as the ensemble disappear up the street and am glad when the drum beat runs into the distance. There is something unsettling about a stolid, rhythmical drumbeat. I think it reminds me of films I’ve seen about English kings and queens, where the drum signifies something very unwelcome, like the death of a monarch.
I think I’ve given up on life in some way. I’ve no drive. I go to bed as soon as possible and get up as late as I can. I do things during the day to pass the time and not because they give me pleasure. I watch a lot of T.V. I don’t call my friends and although I toy with the idea of socialising I usually pass it up. It would require too much energy. I do as little as I can to get by. I get up partly because if I don’t people will come a-knocking on my door to see why I’m not behaving like a normal human being. I don’t want the hassle of that. I also feign physical symptoms – a headache here, a toothache there – to give me legitimate reasons to hole myself away. Although everyone knows I get depressed at times and I get fatigued etc etc, they still don’t seem to be able to wrap their heads around it too easily. A typical conversation with my sister would be:
Her: Heya, y’alright?
Me: Yeah not bad.
Her: What’s up?
Me: It’s just my depression, I feel low today.
Her: Why?
Me: That’s just the way it goes sometimes.
Her: (Gives me a look of confusion).
Why? Why? Why? Why do people need a why when you’ve tried to explain countless times that there isn’t always a why? that very often a depressed mood is a depressed mood and I don’t necessarily need something new to have happened to feel that way. So, in the absence of an easy acceptance of depression as a reason for me looking/acting out of sorts, I find it easier to invent physical reasons and sometimes I even convince myself of them.
I know I sound churlish and I don’t mean to be, but I’m tired. I’m tired of it not being enough for me to say, look, I’m depressed today, my brain chemicals are all out of whack and I feel like shit.
I hope I get some lust for life back soon. This state of being is draining me.
I wake up several times during the night, I am sweating, sticky and uncomfortable. I have horrid dreams, disturbing scenarios play out, for the most part involving people I know or have known and therefore handing my dreams an easy pass to plausibility.
Waking up is a RELIEF. I am glad the dreams are over. One can’t escape dreams, they are foisted upon the dreamer, whether they are desired or not (sub-conscious volition aside). In waking life at least I have some options. I usually take refuge in sleep, just not last night. Perhaps the newly sticky heat is causing some of this night strangeness.
Whilst still in the fug of just-woken-upness this morning I hear a thunderous noise, a drum, more than one drum, getting closer and beating out a solid time – thud – thud – thud – thud – then some wrenching high brass over the top of the solid beat. A march. Not had one of those down my street for a while. As the noise gets nearer my ears stiffen, trying to retreat. I haul ass to the window because this is not the kind of noise that will be ignored.
There are lots of people. Walking. The instruments are somewhere at the front of the group, out of sight by the time I reach the window. I see the remnants, two men with long brass rods propped against their right shoulders. I’ve seen these before in marches, I don’t know their name, a brass pole with something of a flourish at the top. Then there are a few men and women in clerical garb – plum-coloured flowing material - and a bishop in amongst them, flanked by other officials right and left. Finally I see a large purple banner held taut with poles. The banner is rather square and reaches a long way across the width of the road. There are a few symbols on it, a dove, predictably, as well as crosses and such like. Emblazoned in four quadrants of the purple banner are words. FAITH is one. PEACE is another. The others I don’t remember.
I watch as the ensemble disappear up the street and am glad when the drum beat runs into the distance. There is something unsettling about a stolid, rhythmical drumbeat. I think it reminds me of films I’ve seen about English kings and queens, where the drum signifies something very unwelcome, like the death of a monarch.
I think I’ve given up on life in some way. I’ve no drive. I go to bed as soon as possible and get up as late as I can. I do things during the day to pass the time and not because they give me pleasure. I watch a lot of T.V. I don’t call my friends and although I toy with the idea of socialising I usually pass it up. It would require too much energy. I do as little as I can to get by. I get up partly because if I don’t people will come a-knocking on my door to see why I’m not behaving like a normal human being. I don’t want the hassle of that. I also feign physical symptoms – a headache here, a toothache there – to give me legitimate reasons to hole myself away. Although everyone knows I get depressed at times and I get fatigued etc etc, they still don’t seem to be able to wrap their heads around it too easily. A typical conversation with my sister would be:
Her: Heya, y’alright?
Me: Yeah not bad.
Her: What’s up?
Me: It’s just my depression, I feel low today.
Her: Why?
Me: That’s just the way it goes sometimes.
Her: (Gives me a look of confusion).
Why? Why? Why? Why do people need a why when you’ve tried to explain countless times that there isn’t always a why? that very often a depressed mood is a depressed mood and I don’t necessarily need something new to have happened to feel that way. So, in the absence of an easy acceptance of depression as a reason for me looking/acting out of sorts, I find it easier to invent physical reasons and sometimes I even convince myself of them.
I know I sound churlish and I don’t mean to be, but I’m tired. I’m tired of it not being enough for me to say, look, I’m depressed today, my brain chemicals are all out of whack and I feel like shit.
I hope I get some lust for life back soon. This state of being is draining me.
I wake up several times during the night, I am sweating, sticky and uncomfortable. I have horrid dreams, disturbing scenarios play out, for the most part involving people I know or have known and therefore handing my dreams an easy pass to plausibility.
Waking up is a RELIEF. I am glad the dreams are over. One can’t escape dreams, they are foisted upon the dreamer, whether they are desired or not (sub-conscious volition aside). In waking life at least I have some options. I usually take refuge in sleep, just not last night. Perhaps the newly sticky heat is causing some of this night strangeness.
Whilst still in the fug of just-woken-upness this morning I hear a thunderous noise, a drum, more than one drum, getting closer and beating out a solid time – thud – thud – thud – thud – then some wrenching high brass over the top of the solid beat. A march. Not had one of those down my street for a while. As the noise gets nearer my ears stiffen, trying to retreat. I haul ass to the window because this is not the kind of noise that will be ignored.
There are lots of people. Walking. The instruments are somewhere at the front of the group, out of sight by the time I reach the window. I see the remnants, two men with long brass rods propped against their right shoulders. I’ve seen these before in marches, I don’t know their name, a brass pole with something of a flourish at the top. Then there are a few men and women in clerical garb – plum-coloured flowing material - and a bishop in amongst them, flanked by other officials right and left. Finally I see a large purple banner held taut with poles. The banner is rather square and reaches a long way across the width of the road. There are a few symbols on it, a dove, predictably, as well as crosses and such like. Emblazoned in four quadrants of the purple banner are words. FAITH is one. PEACE is another. The others I don’t remember.
I watch as the ensemble disappear up the street and am glad when the drum beat runs into the distance. There is something unsettling about a stolid, rhythmical drumbeat. I think it reminds me of films I’ve seen about English kings and queens, where the drum signifies something very unwelcome, like the death of a monarch.
I think I’ve given up on life in some way. I’ve no drive. I go to bed as soon as possible and get up as late as I can. I do things during the day to pass the time and not because they give me pleasure. I watch a lot of T.V. I don’t call my friends and although I toy with the idea of socialising I usually pass it up. It would require too much energy. I do as little as I can to get by. I get up partly because if I don’t people will come a-knocking on my door to see why I’m not behaving like a normal human being. I don’t want the hassle of that. I also feign physical symptoms – a headache here, a toothache there – to give me legitimate reasons to hole myself away. Although everyone knows I get depressed at times and I get fatigued etc etc, they still don’t seem to be able to wrap their heads around it too easily. A typical conversation with my sister would be:
Her: Heya, y’alright?
Me: Yeah not bad.
Her: What’s up?
Me: It’s just my depression, I feel low today.
Her: Why?
Me: That’s just the way it goes sometimes.
Her: (Gives me a look of confusion).
Why? Why? Why? Why do people need a why when you’ve tried to explain countless times that there isn’t always a why? that very often a depressed mood is a depressed mood and I don’t necessarily need something new to have happened to feel that way. So, in the absence of an easy acceptance of depression as a reason for me looking/acting out of sorts, I find it easier to invent physical reasons and sometimes I even convince myself of them.
I know I sound churlish and I don’t mean to be, but I’m tired. I’m tired of it not being enough for me to say, look, I’m depressed today, my brain chemicals are all out of whack and I feel like shit.
I hope I get some lust for life back soon. This state of being is draining me.