In search of the elusive ‘solution‘ to the crushing feelings of sadness that creep up on me daily, I seem to have fallen into my own special fucked-up coping mechanism. Something unhealthy. You see, I have not wanted to admit this because I find it humiliating, yet I still do it.
Here it is: In the morning, after I drop off my son at school, come home, and later drop off my daughter, I go back to bed. I tell myself not to do it. I tell myself that I’m not going to do it. Then I tell myself I’m just going to relax in bed and read for a little while. But I know I’ll fall asleep, and I always do.
And I’m glad it happens.
Some days, I sleep late enough that I wake up with only enough time to grab a shower and maybe eat before it’s time to pick up the kids. Basically, I’m sleeping my life away. It’s bad. Really bad. And it’s really sad, too. And I know it. This is not what I want my life to be. But I feel empty. I don’t know how to cope with the overwhelming, unbearable, uncontrollable feelings of utter despair that stop me from facing the day.
I actively tell myself, even aloud sometimes, that it’s okay. It’s not as bad as my brain tells me it is. But I can’t kick the feeling. It’s physical as much as emotional. And fight as I may, the feelings come every day. No matter what. Every fucking day. And it hurts in every way. And I cry. And I hate that I’m crying and I hate that I feel these feelings but nothing eradicates them. I can’t prevent them and I can’t kill them.
I can only cover them up with sleep.
I don’t even know that I’m adequately describing those feelings. I don’t know that it’s possible for me to do so. I feel bored and hopeless and alone. I feel purposeless and pointless and useless. I don’t know what to do with myself. No, I take that back. I can think of plenty of mundane (or even enjoyable) things to do to pass the time—things that are more productive than sleeping. But I lack motivation. I call it lazy. My NP calls it depression. I’m pretty sure she’s right. But that doesn’t help me hate myself any less.
My NP also told me (without any prompting from me) what I’ve said all along. No medication is going to fix everything. [So please, if you want to tell me that I need to have my meds adjusted, pardon my bluntness, but fuck off.] I’m never going to pop some pills and become the fucking mistress of sunshine. That’s not how meds work. What has to happen is I need to change my way of thinking. I need the will to do it. And I need to try everything, even the things that sound ridiculous and corny to me. The meds (which actually did change slightly recently), hopefully, can get me to a place where I can try everything—where I actually have the drive to try everything.
My NP also notices, every time I see her, that I have taken some steps in the right direction. But I don’t see them. I only see my failures. I tell her how things are going, and she finds little things in there that she sees as achievements. I don’t notice them. I don’t acknowledge them. I don’t even notice when I mention them to her in passing like tiny meaningless details. But she says they’re not meaningless.
I really wish she was a full-on therapist because I really click with her. It’s like talking to a friend. And I truly believe that is exactly what I need—someone who feels like (or is?) a friend. But my NP’s not a therapist. I don’t know that I’ll ever find one who I click with in this way. And I don’t have the money or the drive to search.
So I guess it’s nap time.
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