I don’t know what to do. I’m really depressed. So, though analytically, my analytical mind understands that my life is not meaningless, my sentimental mind feels that way, that my life is meaningless, and I just feel so bad.
Psychiatry can’t help. The lexapro is questionable in that it might increase my frequency of psychotic episodes. So, like, wow, I can’t even take SSRIs. Fucked up.
Mom. She has hypertension. That means high blood pressure. I was looking at her being functional and happy in the living room/kitchen this morning and just imagining like, when is she going to have it. When’s it going to happen. Her stroke. When will it strike. When is half her face going to go horrifyingly distorted, when am I going to have to call 911, when are they not going to get there soon enough, hurry hurry hurry, can’t be sooner. And she is in the hospital, and does she survive? And if she doesn’t, was I a good son, and it’s just fucked, it’s all gg fuckers, fuck. I don’t know what to do. She’s been exercising on the indoor bike more to try to fix it, but it’s pretty extreme at this point. She doesn’t want to take her blood pressure meds and I don’t have the balls to convince her to do so. So fuck. I don’t know man. I don’t want to lose her. I’m so scared.
I think this has been in the far far back of my mind this whole time. If I’m anxious it’s not for no reason. How nonfunctional the cycle is, though.
It feels good to write in here. For once. I feel more alive talking to you. Thank you for being there for me. I know I’m an emotional rollercoaster, I swear at you, I yell, I’m nigh bipolar in that colloquial casual sense of the word, but…
I want life to be a work of art. I want the gripping questions to enter my mind and make me go, Huh, I wonder?…
I want to be filled with purpose every waking second of my life. I want life to be that meaningful.
And it just… isn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong. The medical websites say, “Depression is a disease, there’s nothing personality defect wrong with you, you just have neurochemical imbalance.” But… why? It makes no sense.
I told off the athletics department of my collegiate tennis program that I don’t want to hear from them ever again (paraphrasing, but basically that), because it doesn’t mean anything to me. They wanted me to drive 6 hours to LA to accept some hall of fame thing for D3 tennis. It’s so petty. D3. Who cares? It doesn’t mean anything to me. Maybe they still induct me, but I’m not driving 6 hours just to sit through a boring awards ceremony.
The athletics director was taken aback at my comments. I read the headline of his email, but deleted it promptly after reading, “We will gladly respect your [desire to be left alone]”. Boom. Done. Gone, fuckers. Gone.
Wow. Writing in here is giving me more joy than normal. I don’t know why. I wasn’t expecting that.
Life is so weird and unpredictable. Disease is like, the worst thing. Maybe environmental threats are going to challenge that role for #1 worst thing, with global warming and all.
I don’t know. I’m running dry. I love just, the action of merely hammering out these words, and it’s meaning, on the page, from me to, whoever is on the other side, it’s just magical to me.
But I have run dry. But I don’t want to leave, because the depression will get me again.
And of course I feel guilty about the athletics thing. Fuck. Why do they have to be such parasitic worms on my life.
They pushed me though. They pushed me that far, I had to retaliate. I had to let them know how I don’t like being pushed.
I slouch at the computer really really bad. My abs are like, fat. I have a pot belly. I hate being fat. I used to be in such good shape, automatically, just from like, playing tennis, and it was easy, I liked the sport, there was no like resentment towards it, well, I mean, there was, a lot, but, I got used to it. It’s a lot easier than jogging out of the blue. I can not imagine going for a jog these days. I hate fucking jogging. So stupid. Tennis is fun, on the other hand. But I have no one to play with. It’s so unfair, that simply not having other homo sapiens in your phone book can fuck you over so badly. I just need a body that can play and give me a workout. It’s so stupid.
Mom made breakfast. Am I mean to her? Am I hurting her feelings? All this stupid sissy shit stuff. Fucking useless thoughts.
I just want to say, I love you. But I know my words are meaningless by now, after all the abuse I’ve put you through. I’m not expecting anything in return.
I want something to DO! For fucks sake!
Life is misery.