After being woken up at bang on 8 o’clock this morning by some builders doing I don’t know what (the exterior work is done, the interior work isn’t started) I now know that I am going to have to temporarily move out of my flat to make the work go twice as fast. My not being here will take the estimated completion time from 6 weeks to 3 weeks. That’s still a pretty long time to not be living in my flat and I very much doubt my landlord is going to compensate me in any way.
I don’t know whether it’s the depression or the inconvenience of it all that makes me wish I hadn’t been quite so persistent in my complaints about the damp and mould… Yet more inconveniently I don’t actually know when the builders intend to come and start working. So at some point in the not too distant future, but I know not when, I am going to have to find somewhere else to sleep for an unconfirmed amount of time and work out how I’m going to keep up with the blog and my little art hobby. I suppose there’s work to consider too…
About know I reckon you’re thinking goodness me S, your life sucks! Yesterday you bite your lip and now this minor inconvenience! No wonder you’re depressed. And for your sarcasm I thank you.
It brings me to my latest recurring feeling. One of guilt. You see, I’m in a pretty deep slump right now, my mood tracker has crashed to the bottom. I’m almost entirely apathetic about the world and it’s contents. I have no motivation to do anything of any worth. I took a nap at work, which is something I would ordinarily be terrified of doing. These seem like pretty clear signs of a deep depression but what with the doctor appointments and the therapist appointment and all the blogging, the question of why I’m depressed keeps cropping up.
My life is not terrible. I have not had any crimes committed against me (that I know of), my parents have a dysfunctional relationship but they’re good parents, I have a job, I live in a first world country, I have food, water and slightly damp shelter. But here I sit whining about how depressed I am. It makes me feel pretty guilty to consider all the atrocities that other people suffer and get over while I’m complaining about the difficulties of existing. I feel like I shouldn’t be depressed, like I don’t deserve to be depressed.
I have to say these feelings were somewhat worsened by the therapist. She seemed not to take me as seriously once I told her there was a 0% chance I’d commit suicide. I wouldn’t care if I got hit by a bus and died, but I’m not about to kill myself. Too many people would be severely hurt if I did. She kind of made me question whether I was really depressed if I wouldn’t even consider suicide.
Much like all the things she told me, I already know what I should be doing. I should be saying to myself that depression is inexplicable, it can hit anyone anytime. I should not be letting myself feel that any one person’s depression is more or less valid. And I should probably be proud of myself for thinking of the consequences of my actions even in the midst of a massive depressive bout.
But it is hard, isn’t it?