Two years since I last sat down and patiently tapped away at tiny square letters until some words appeared in a way that described how I was feeling.
In two years I have found more success than I could have ever dreamed of. I have everything I wanted the last time I sat here tapping away at this damn keyboard.
I’m still miserable.
It turns out that, when you’re mentally ill and so fucking depressed you think about dying to cheer yourself up, no amount of success will magically cure what ails you.
I am just as sick now as I was 2 years ago. Maybe sicker. I’ve relapsed more times than I’d like to think, until I hit rock bottom and started shelling out the big bucks to a shrink again. I can afford that now.
I don’t know if it’s helping me or not. I like to think it is, mainly because if it isn’t, there are some Louboutins that would look great in my closet. At any rate, it’s nice to have someone’s undivided attention for an hour a few times a week. It’s not that people around me don’t care, it’s just that I’ve eliminated most of the people around me.
I feel just as lost as I did two years ago, but less poignantly so. Two years ago, I actually cared that I felt lost. I was on a quest to fix it; I was chasing down the fleeting feeling I’d once grasped of belonging and purpose. Now, I don’t think I have enough heart left to care. It’s funny how things work out. Maybe I cared too much about finding a point to my existence, and wore out my ability to give a shit about anything.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m obsessed with my job and my career. I’ve broken enough records in the past two years that the only records I’m breaking now are the ones I already broke and set. But it doesn’t fulfill me. It doesn’t give me a sense of greater belonging or orchestrated purpose. It frustrates me to no end and fuels my fanatical belief that I am not currently good enough, but on some far off day, I will have achieved enough to be good enough. Good enough for what, I do not know.
I tried taking pictures and writing and falling back into past addictions and traveling and a few scandalous affairs and music and a different career and going back to school for something completely impractical but fairly fun… and I still feel useless, and empty, and worthless, and doomed to hell for my poor life decisions. I also do not care enough that I am doomed to hell to do jack shit about it.
At least two years ago I was in touch enough with my feelings to extrapolate on them. Now it’s all I can do to string together a response when someone asks me how my day is going. My therapist can barely pull relevant information out of me, and when she does, it’s probably a lot like pulling horse teeth. I just don’t care enough anymore to know how I feel. What’s the point if I just feel vaguely miserable all the time?
So, yeah, all that to say that two years have passed, and nothing has really changed. Except now maybe I’ll come back to this.