Sometimes it seems like it would take so little for me to be happy. Well, a big pile of money would help, but that's not what I mean. I mean, just trying. Just trying harder. It seems like all I should have to do is decide to be happy and then it would follow naturally from there. I would be able to play my flute, draw, dance and sing; keep my house up and go back to gardening all without thinking about it.
But it doesn't work that way. Every little thing takes thought. And every thought debilitates me.
(It doesn't help that the the cat is screaming at me and I don't know what she wants.)
I remember way back when. I was severely depressed then; I know I was. I was suicidal and cutting myself and crying every night. But still, there were things that made me happy. I could play music. I could listen to music. I could write. I could act in plays. Monty Python made me laugh. I could make it.
Now everything is the same uniform shade of grey. I don't know where the colour went.
It doesn't seem to make any sense to fight it. Why? When I don't get joy out of anything, what can I hope for except more work and frustration for no result?
I can imagine myself being happy. I can imagine that person--what she would look like. But getting to be that person seems so out of my reach. So forced. It seems the inevitable course of my downward spiral is already mapped out for me.
Socrates said, "Be what you would like to seem." Sounds simple and for years I practiced that in the good faith that it would lead me to becoming the person I want to be. It didn't work that way. Eventually I ended up back where I am now. Grey and depressed. Unable even to cry. It reminds me of being anorexic. I felt nothing. I cared for nothing. Everything was...beyond me. Except I cared for the weight loss and exercise then. Now not even that touches me.
I need to shave my legs but the thought of getting in the tub with even a safety razor frightens me right now.