Blathering on and suchlike, also: mope mope mope

It seems my desire to write has fizzled. It was to be expected. I may have at one point considered myself a writer, a poet, an artist (the production of anything a compulsion I couldn’t ignore), but as I’ve gotten older apathy has smothered many of my desires leaving me appallingly unproductive. Even now it threatens to capsize even this paltry attempt. The specter of “why bother” rattles my thoughts and my fingers are tempted to falter.


I have what used to be called a “depressed personality”. I am easily discouraged, pessimistic, and anxious. I’m low-energy, unmotivated, and often blue. At one point I was medicated, but that was many years ago. It is quite possible a combination of medication and therapy would help me now, but these things are rather hard to acquire when you don’t have insurance. Don’t you love it when medical care is a luxury? Yay, America.

And so, my productivity level is low and my general satisfaction with life is low as well. For years I have seen life as a burden of sorts- something to get through to please those around me, something to get through so I can enjoy the occasional pleasant experience.

I think the struggle to find enjoyment in life is one of the defining factors of my person. It isn’t so much a search for meaning (as I believe in the essential meaninglessness of existence) as it is a search for satisfaction. In a world where nothing truly means anything everything is possible. That is the beauty of nihilism, I suppose- a release from the arbitrary constructions of society. However, I consistently find nihilism unsatisfactory. I may not crave meaning, but I require some sort of purpose. I require some sort of goal to attain, if only to keep my mind occupied.

Life, to me, is full of pointless drudgery. I find it boring, sad, and terribly scary. This is a character flaw, I know. It is not something one should readily admit. Yet I do. I am aware this is a defect. A self-defeating defect if there ever was one. The combination of a lack of motivation and excessive boredom is a recipe for disaster. I do what I can to keep myself entertained and distracted in a healthy way, to get my heart-rate up and the chemicals flowing. But, in a way I am almost an adrenaline junkie, as the only way I truly feel alive is when I am attempting something new (or daydreaming about something titillating.) Maybe even my anxiety isn’t so much a symptom of my mood disorder as an underhanded attempt by my psyche to introduce some excitement into my days. . .

At any rate, with what little energy I have I use in an attempt to keep myself invested and interested. If people only knew how hard it is for me to sustain my social interactions, and how grateful I am that they are willing to put up with my idiosyncrasies when they encounter them. . . Honestly, I don’t think most people even realize that I have any problems functioning. All told, I really am highly functional. I may not ever do much to improve my situation, but I am financially independent and reasonably responsible; I just take no pleasure from such things. Yet, I am fully capable of putting up a front of cheerfulness for a limited amount of time, and so I do. When I find myself too exhausted or discouraged to pretend anymore I retreat to my apartment, bed, and books. Only those very close to me or those persistent enough are allowed in my presence when I am in a foul mood. Even then, while I may be grateful for the distraction, I am often testy and uncommunicative and the experience isn’t fruitful for either of us. So, for the most part, my friends and acquaintances only see me when I am making an attempt to be positive.

I’ll admit that when I am actually in a good mood I am pretty fun to be around. I’m compassionate, reasonably patient, kind, intelligent despite my lack of education, respectful, and I’ve a broad sense of humor. Despite my blues, I really don’t take anything seriously, least of all myself. I may be judgmental, but it is an empathetic judgment- I may find I don’t like someone, but I don’t hold it against them. Drama, while I am occasionally the cause, I tend to avoid. I don’t pick fights, spread the nastier bits of gossip, or talk shit unless I know the other person is game for a little ribbing. With a bit of persistence I can be talked into just about any silly thing if it promises even a modicum of entertainment. Also, there is very little off the table as far as conversation goes with me, if you can get me talking. Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that while I may not be the most demonstrative or energetic individual in any group, I will be one of the most chill and accepting. I also give great hugs and look good in a dress.

In conclusion, there really is no conclusion. I’m really not sure what I’m trying to say, or what the point of this was supposed to be other than a desperate attempt at catharsis. It’s just a rambling monologue about how I am disappointed in myself because I am continually so dissatisfied. About how it is incredibly frustrating to see the box you put yourself in while being unable to extricate yourself.

It saddens me greatly that my depression makes me so shallow, that the best I can do with it is produce a mopey entry that will bum people out.

Eh, too late now.

Merry Christmas!


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