Friday, June 12, 2009
Lucidness eludes me. I often feel detached from reality yet I don't have enough will to get back into it. I want to be clear-headed, but I cannot really do it: I end up distracted, having to do more than one thing at any one time otherwise I cannot concentrate. Packets of my memory seem to be beyond the grasp of my consciousness. I cannot remember what happened to my first dog Rocky whom I had when I was a kid.
I feel as detached from my feelings as I do when I was young. I don't remember much of my childhood, except times which were sad or lonely. I do not at all remember any time at all in my growing up that can be classified as happy. Any form of pleasure from playing felt more like a relief from having nothing to do. A relief that feels much like applied pressure on a wound to stop it from bleeding.
I have been trying to write about my memories, or talk about them. But they only make me realise that there are lapses in time I don't remember anything except poignant sadness or silent loneliness.
I try to allow myself to feel, spontaneously, instead of rationally - primary processing it is termed, by Freud. But I cannot get out of the clockwork of rationalising my sadness away. Because sadness scares me, and when I try to feel, that is all I seem to feel at all. I try to administer myself simple pleasures, but nothing tempts me, I enjoy nothing, I am still anhedonic. Any activity is only a distraction to keep me sane.
I have been watching TV drama series on the internet, medical ones included. When the story involves a person 'going to crash', I wish sometimes that they would defillibrate my heart and mind instead to shock it into life once again, before I 'crash'.
I cannot do socialising. I tried to return to my social circle via the phone and the internet but I don't feel up to it, like as if turning on MSN takes so much energy, even more than it does to make a cup of coffee.
If I try to relax, I started to crumble, even physiologically: I find myself rocking or shaking, I feel like I can no longer utter a word out of my mouth. If spontaneous feeling is the antidote to anhedonia, then it is as good as saying allowing my depression to take over is the key to treating my depression.
I am tired. Of this journey. Of not being able to work. Of not being much more well and functional than is ideal. This year I will be thirty. I don't know when I will recover. All I want to do now is cry. That is the outward sign of the only emotion I ever really knew.