how

How do you mark the day when you realize that you'll probably never really be happy or even reasonably content, that some trick of fate or life, some confluence of genetics, conditioning, a soupcon of abuse and sensitivity have pooled to insure that your life will be a muddy pool, ranging from a clinging, lite sadness to a black and sludgy depression that immobilizes you for days and weeks at a time? Is it freeing to accept that the medication gets you to a baseline that's better than what was, but is still a dip below strength of mind, requiring richer experiences and more colorful adventures to illicit even a soupcon of joy, mostly fleeting and translucent. Is it a disservice to those who love you to gradually stop talking about it, complaining about the funk, is it an acceptance not to flail against it, to keep fighting a fight that seems more and more like a waste of energy and time and resources. We Americans, we fighters of impossible fights, we're supposed to batter away at walls of granite or titanium, surmount them, blast through them with sheer will, with faith in demigods, with science, and clever language, with our last breath. People sometimes think it's melodramatic to say that one can't move one more step, one can't take one more shot or pill or therapy session because it just doesn't work all the way, it just isn't helping at all. Sure, you've been worse, you've been suicidal and it's true to say that you aren't now, that you are maintaining that baseline, that you are able to feed and clothe yourself, that you are able to brush your teeth--that was always a sign that things had gone too far, when you couldn't brush your teeth--that you are able to go to work, go through the motions, and maybe your chatter is a little more nervous and maybe your judgments aren't as sharp and sure, maybe you forget what 8x7 is, but there are calculators, reminders, spell checkers, family members who help you out financially, friends who are always willing to listen, but, damn, you just don't feel like wasting one more minute of your life, sad though it may be, talking about this shit. You are tired of it like a coal miner is tired of dust, exhausted by the very thought of another depression group, there is always somebody much worse off and you are supposed to compare your situation and feel better in comparison, but that never works because you feel so bad for the person, that one strategy never works for you, sorry doctor/therapist/parent/friend.

You hope you are being enough for the people in your life but you know you aren't, but this is all you have to give. They slowly, sadly accept this or go away because they can't face the sadness of what you've become or what your friendship is not or the reflected blackness. Your laughter rings hollow, you don't write, you don't call, you listen, but you listen for the disappointment and not the message. The disappointment is what hurts the most, not your own disappointment, but the disappointment of those you love, those who had hopes for you, those who want your ear, your input, your friendship, your guidance, your heart. But you don't know how. Connection is not innate with you, or the fear of it has been blocked like a leaf choked sewer because past connections have been so painful.

So you stumble along, and try to remember to brush your teeth.