‘Stop The World, I Want To Get Off…’
This is how I feel right now. And sadly it’s neither a new nor an unusual state of mind, for me.
I’ve weathered a number of particularly unpleasant storms in the last couple of years. But instead of experiencing them as ‘what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger’ type events… Well, it’s more a case of being worn down by attrition.
To continue with the Anthony Newley schtick, ‘What kind of fool am I?’
What kind of man is this?
An empty shell
A lonely cell in which
An empty heart must dwell
Unlike Littlechap, the protagonist of the play/film (etc.) that the poster atop this post refers to, I’m not in a circus, nor do I have kids, a successful career, wealth, or a series of interesting lovers.
I’m just a ‘bona fido’ sad-sack loser. I don’t enjoy life. At least not enough to want more of it. Depression has been a near constant companion since mid- or even early-teens.
And what have I done with the life I do have? Feck all. Or at least feck all of any worth. Even of any worth just to me, or those around me.
Everything seems to me like a pointless and lamentable waste. A waste of time. A waste of energy. And as time passes, this makes me more and more bitter and angry. What’s the fucking point!?
I realise that I’m not this way all the time. And sometimes I’m actually happy. Or just ‘comfortably numb’, as The Floyd had it.
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown,
The dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.
(Pink Floyd [lyrics, Roger Waters)
Writing like this, to my surprise, seems to help a bit. Maybe just venting a little is ok? I’ve found calls to The Samaritans helpful. So much so I’ve gone from thinking they are totally useless (poss’ even harmful!?), to becoming almost dependent on them.
I guess I need to go back and get more ‘help’? But I don’t really want to. And therein lies one of the worst aspects of the depressed state: lack of motivation.
In fact it’s kind of worse than a pure absence of motivation. Only when I’m actively doing something else, e.g. my Amazon delivery work, do I feel motivated to do other stuff. But as soon as I get home, poof! That’s gone. And I slump back into the slough of despond.
I can dream up schemes when I'm sitting in my seat
I don't see any flaws 'til I get to my feet
I wish I never woke up this morning
(The Police, Darkness [Stewart Copeland])
I’m seriously tempted to just brutally chuck out a ton of stuff I’ve accumulated over the years, as I feel that ‘all my shit’ – both physical and mental – is quite literally doing my head in.