From the Oubliette

I haven't written anything in too long. Just can't seem to find the impetus. I suppose I'm depressed, but when I went to look for an image to illustrate this post, and typed 'Depression' into Google Images, all I came up with were pictures of people crying.

That wouldn't be accurate. I don't feel sad. I'm not all teary and weepy. I almost wish that I could cry. I just feel like....nothing. I have mental paralysis.

At times like this, my whole physical nature changes. Instead of being made of flesh and bone, I'm made of guilt and regret. ( With a little apathy and irritation thrown into the mix. ) And I can't see color. I mean, I can tell whether a pepper is red or green, but the color doesn't reach me. In fact, that's how I can tell when I'm about to ascend from the pit. It usually happens when I'm driving. Suddenly, I'll notice a shimmer of light off the water or the flash of a bluejay's wing or a cardinal in flight, and because of the way the color jumps out at me, I know I'm getting better.

These pale, blue funks usually only last less than a week, and I've been dwelling here for at least three days now. No color excites my eye, no music catches my ear. No book interests me enough that I don't put it down after the first few pages. It's nearly impossible to get out of the house, except to go and sit with Louise, who, I suspect, is in a deeper blue funk than I am, poor old girl.

I wrote a letter to all the people I know at the German Club, telling them that, for personal reasons (none of them serious or amusing) I would be unavailable for the next few days. I know that a few of them do read this blog, so now they know why.

It's like I'm homesick for a place I've never been, or lonely for a person I've never known. It's like I'm waiting for something to happen, but without much hope that it will happen.I feel like that old toy, Mr. Machine, and that my wind-up mechanism is winding down.

Kurt is so good. Any other person wouldn't put up with this. They'd nag at me to stop being such a baby. And they'd be right. But Kurt just asks, "Is there anything I can do for you, Hon?", and looks worried.

Maybe I should take a Vivarin. That would make me nervous. It would start up that internal vibration that makes me think a hive of bees has taken up residence in my thorax. It might 'jump start' me into action.

Me, me, me. What a schlump.

- Me, poopy.


EDIT: Two hours later: The Vivarin did NOTHING!