I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for 8 months. And its pretty well the first time in my life that I have experienced it at this level.
I’ve always prefered being alone. And yet was rarely lonely.
But the sense of abandonment created by my sisters’ choices to leave me to work this mental illness out on my own, has made me teeter into a whole new dimension of being alone and knowing there is nothing on the other side of my aloneness.
That’s one level of the irony.
The other level is that I don’t have to be this alone.
I want someone to come and get me out of my isolation but I would likely reject the offer.
I want someone to help me do all the things that are so necessary for me to recover - to make sure I don’t miss appointments and that I don’t give up and that I do social things and that I take meds and that I exercise. I want someone to just nudge me into those first steps until I am strong enough to do it without someone holding my hand.
But if someone tried, I’d probably resist their efforts.
I want someone to care enough about whether I live to see the New Year to check on me, but I don’t answer anyone’s calls and now they just don’t call.
I am so very alone. And I don’t want to be. But I don’t do anything to correct it. I could. For example, I could have gone to my aunt’s for dinner without an invitation. But there was no invitation and even if there was it just seems like I would feel so broken and humiliated and have to explain and apologize and its so very much more than I have the energy or self worth to cope with.
Its so very fragile inside of me. The idea of being criticized, or having to face all of the mess I have made of my relationships with friends and family, or having to pretend that I am strong and fine. I just don’t have that ability right now. And it doesn’t feel safe to go out and deal with anyone I know from the past because all of those things will happen.
I’m not saying any of this right. I don’t know how to express how I feel. I just know it feels bad and its not getting better. 8 months after I thought I hit rock bottom, I feel worse.
I’m not homeless and I have Lily. And I feel worse than I did the day I lost both of those things and my sisters handed me money and a map to the homeless shelters. I don’t know how that is possible. Surely it should get better?
I shouldn’t still spend my nights crying in bed.
I should want to be with other people.
I should be stronger than this.
I should be able to forgive my sisters.
But none of that is the way it is.
And maybe it will never be that way.
Because depression made me into both a helpless mess and someone no one would want to help. Its a dick of an illness.
If it had a physical form, I would tie it to stake and set it afire and watch while it screamed until it died.
But that’s not that the way it is. The only physical form this illness takes is me. I am the illness. All platitudes to the contrary are wrong. Because there is no other way to look at it in the nitty gritty of it.
I am the physical meat of my body. And that meat is currently manifesting as depression. That is me.
And the person of me has earned the right to be kicked to the curb by friends and family alike. I’ve ignored them. I’ve taken money that I can’t imagine repaying because I can barely manage my life on the money I currently make. I don’t deserve their time or respect or effort on my behalf.
And now I’m writing to the void.