Black Dog

I don’t often stray into this territory, but I’m having a bad patch right now so bear with me.

The trouble with depression is you can’t really do anything about it. You just feel like…. x…. where x is usually some combination of uselessness and pointlessness rolled into one. With practice you get to know that it is just what it is, but knowing that doesn’t actually change the way you feel. It doesn’t help one jot for people to tell you that things (well, you, actually) are neither useless nor pointless, as the emotion is very sticky and mostly impenetrable to reason. So I avoid talking about it, as there isn’t a damn thing anyone can do about it anyway.

One of the side-effects (for me) is a reluctance to write, as it starts to seem like a waste of time (along with everything else). Often my response to that is sheer bloody-mindedness, but currently I’m also quite short on the stubborn-juice, drifting in and out of actually believing the rubbish that goes through my head in response to the emotional dysfunction.