Out of the blue, a woman approached Jack earlier today and asked him if he was doing OK. Apparently, she felt he was looking “out of sorts” and—being the good samaritan that she is—wanted to make sure nothing was up. Jack lies about everything being perfectly fine; and makes something up about just having a “very long day,” brought about by a looming deadline. She said she knew what that was like, and soon continued on her merry way.
Who is he kidding? Jack hasn’t met a single deadline in months… years? Barely existing, it’s not like Jack cares about deadlines anymore. It’s not like Jack cares about anything, anymore.
The depressing bit about crippling depression is that it’s crippling.
People seem to be under the misconception that depression has something to do with being sad. Jack knows that this is not true. The two emotions operate on such different levels, that it is as though they are entirely unrelated. Depression is a veil that cloaks Jack’s state of mind on so many levels that it sometimes feels to him like he’s being choked.
He’s always exhausted, and even forcing himself to sleep more than 10–12 hours each night makes no difference. Keeping his eyes open is a chore. Moving is a chore. Observing is a chore. Thinking is a chore. Just being is a chore. There is no scope for productive pondering, let alone getting any work done under such a situation. You just exist, should you choose to.
From the later and later starts to his days to their earlier and earlier ends, Jack barely manages to wallow along; almost struggling like a man who’s been crippled by war. Nothing matters to him. The things he was once passionate about—the ones he derived pleasure pursuing—feel insurmountably hard just to attempt. He just doesn’t want to, and doesn’t even see the point anymore.
As if this weren’t bad enough, Jack’s body soon begins to get into the act as well. In an attempt to match its state with Jack’s mannerisms, it begins to break-down and start to hurt, almost without reason. The response is sympathetic, but the pain is real. With that nagging lower back—caused by little more than thought—lasting over months, Jack is now truly crippled; intellectually, emotionally and physically. Forget fancy yoga, Jack has trouble with the laces on his shoes.
Jack has attempted numerous ways to turn the tide. He’s switched sleep hours, dietary routines, and even attempted an exercise regimen. He’s tried everything from buying karma—giving away all that he has to help poor kids—to hoarding every last penny and buying bigger and shinier stuff for himself. He’s found fun activity partners and introduced some structure into his work hours. He’s tried all of this and so much more, but they just don’t work; the resolute veil refuses to rise.
The depressing bit about crippling depression is that it’s crippling.
pundit@emphaticallystatic.org
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