How does depression figure?
For the past weeks, I have been–in a sense–falling into a deep darkness that I find myself unable to withdraw from. It all started from ruminations that keep manifesting themselves at night then to unbearable sleep cycles that leave me exhausted in the morning. Usually the thoughts race; and as I lay down, I do nothing but think of such thoughts over and over again, incessantly, like a pendulum never abating, swinging back and forth. Hence, almost sleepless nights and tiresome mornings that bring me into the brink of debilitation, haunting me even during times of work. However, such never ends there.
The “darkness” can also comprise sensations of loss, mimicking grief over something intangible. It is like death that knocks on my door, putting me into a conundrum, until I give way to its menacing gaze, though reluctantly so. As a consequence, everytime I try so as to move past my hapless state, oftentimes become a futile attempt at doing so for it seems as though I get strangled by a multitude of sensations that shackle. All these have I been experiencing, much to my consternation since I have lots more things to do, mostly related to work. Nonetheless, it has also become apparent that my work has been considerably contributing to the melancholia:—whenever I try to seek work as a refuge, it brandishes its own toxicity against me, like a sword unsheathed, ready to pierce at my heart. Well of course, work do I aspire for as a sort of respite against the evils of the darkness that confounds me but as it turns out, all begets a hopelessness that could not be placated.
Now, what of all these?
This darkness in question supposedly arises from nothingness, but perhaps with a core-of-it-all unbeknownst to me. There is this persistent wave of uncertainty within me, conjuring up tides of insecurities which I constantly feel undermining of my capacities to handle even the minutest isipidity that could overpower my entire being. Yes, that should be appropriate: insipidity in as much as everything about me imparts unto others incognizance of what I am, really. Of course, I know that I am this or that, but I am gaslighted by my very own consciousness that I end up doubting even my very existence. Yet the darkness precedes and succeeds all of these of my state. It looms overhead, uncannily projecting its invincibility then encompasses me, wrapping me, until I could not entirely break free. Hence my mind becomes its puppet, my actions imbue that signature unsavory lack of charm, characteristic of one who lives but is dead. This is what I mean by such darkness without a progenitor, its genesis undefined.
I have been robbed by the darkness. My thoughts have become akin to a longing for death; for why should I even think of life? For fourteen years, the cycle has been perpetual and for countless times have I sought out panacæas that supposedly would pacify my troubled mind. Then an epiphany arose two days ago—maybe I am in a search for love and peace, bliss, hope. I do not have these four, despite all means I have undertaken to achieve those. Even prayers have stopped offering consolations, assurances have become benign. With all these up my sleeve… where am I headed? I am empty and I long for those four which, perhaps, when finally met might give me a sense of fulfillment, confidence, and trust. Indeed, all those four especially love. I desire to love and be loved.
This week, I thought of death but will it come? I am even reluctant to experience it wholeheartedly for there shall be no turning back when it comes. There shall be no more hope. So does that mean I still anticipate that hope embellish its most sought-after visions upon me? To answer such a question do I assume an ambivalent air, even. Why? I have always wanted to destroy myself, to tear my being into shreds for I constantly look upon life as unkind. Nevertheless, despite such a disposition, it seems that I could not afford to die nor hurt myself as is so I could envision death to approach this damned, wretched being whose soul has died but whose flesh and bones still thrive. Now am I unkind to myself? I believe so. But since I still live tangibly, I have no choice but to move forward through the darkness even without seeing the light.