I haven’t written in a few days, and don’t get me wrong – I’ve had a lovely few days. And maybe that’s the problem? Not an actual problem, just for me. When I feel happy in those times, when I can honestly tell myself I am happy, I worry that I won’t feel that again for a while.
I do it to myself – I think about being happy so much I think myself unhappy. I don’t appreciate the quiet times, that I look back on and miss. I don’t enjoy the drives home or the peace of going from one activity to another. I don’t enjoy being on my own, until I actually am and can occupy my mind with something, doing my nails or sketching. Otherwise it occupies itself with thoughts, both unnecessary and pointless.
It annoys me I can’t relish in the moment. I’ve actually started to just get annoyed at myself for being down and feeling this way. And it annoys me that surely if I am annoyed at myself for feeling the way I do, I should be able to change it, right? But depression doesn’t work that way. It’s not as predictable as my anxiety would like it to be.
And that’s the problem. The awful, cruel combination of feeling nothing, and the worry that it could strike any moment. That I could be having a great day, or a great week, and a thought will come into my head and it all changes.
It’s a habit, a bad habit of my mind. And it snatches away at moments I know in the future I am going to wish I could relive.
My aim for this evening: tell my thoughts to do one.