There is a strange seductive power in the dark mood. Though one may not want to be depressed, I admit that depression has a certain draw that I wonder if my living in that mood is sometimes a choice. Maybe I come back to it because it’s just so familiar. I don’t know how to stay simply content when I’ve never really been in that state of mind.
Before work, I ordered a planner for the year 2009. A red Moleskine book, the color matches my large, red L-shaped couch. (although the couch isn’t red on the edges anymore since I covered up all of the scratched areas with Kerry-Edwards stickers.) Yes, I know the year’s, like, third of the way over, but it was a big step for me to finally switch from a makeshift pieces of paper to an actual calendar that’ll allow me to write down my, well, plans for the year.
I thought I felt okay all through the afternoon, but I suppose that wasn’t meant to last for the rest of the day. It wasn’t the best thing that I chose to watch ‘House’ instead of SportsCenter during dinner (I should have stuck with ESPN; they’re starting to speak about NFL). The ‘House’ episode happened to be the one where Kutner kills himself, and watching that show undoubtedly raised questions within myself. I began to evaluate if I was glad to be alive. I honestly couldn’t answer, and that scared me. How desperately I wanted to say yes to that question, but that really would be lying.
Later that night, I picked up Simon, held him and walked to my bedroom. As he purred in my arms, I wept. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know what I needed to do. Droplets landed on Simon’s striped fur, while he tolerated my embrace and just purred. Maybe this isn’t depression but a genuine fear of what’s to come.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Mascara had run with the tears. This is why I rarely wear mascara, I thought to myself.
I believe I prefer being able to have some level of introspection than living without it. However, my friend asked me if my constant self-evaluation just masks the symptom of depression. I don’t know. Am I just fighting to keep a part of what I thought was me, but it really wasn’t? I’m trying to hold on to something (as in the thought process) that I know will kill me. It’s become painfully clear that what I thought was being perceptive has turned into a paralytic. “You can’t stop being who you are because you’re afraid, right?” says Carrie Bradshaw. Well, what if you’re afraid that the extremes of who you are become detrimental to your own life? Where is that line? What’s the limit?