I admit that I can feel depressed even when I am working or in the middle of a task. More often than not, I end up staring blankly into space, as though time flies without anyone barring it from doing so. Having a sense of time escapes me: I do not know when and where I am headed, what to do next, and what other tasks may bring. In short, it is as if my brain festers with a demented recollection of what I am bound to accomplish as minutes and seconds go fluttering by, leaving me with an empty space of creativity that has been.
This happens every single day.
Thus being said, I would feel bullied by my very own anima. I end up with a lethargic, motionless brain, sitting there as though ready to give up the ghost—this, happening whilst on my way to work and even as I sit in front of my desk trying to conjure up all what I know concerning that which brings food to my table. However, no matter how I try, the depression still gets the best of me, the black dog biting against my head, tearing all its crevices apart. It looks like I am a tattered soul against the hurly-burly of the world, gnawed at little by little until nothing is left of my soul. It seems garish enough to imagine, but nothing here is imaginary; I am, in reality, a person of cathartic existence being left to the mercy of Fate to bring my case unto juries who shall decide upon what befits me as a person of worthy character but with a singular struggle that appears unending in itself. It is this that haunts me in the midst of my everyday work, looming over my head, as though a hag flying atop my crown ready to hurl her hexes upon me. I then lose focus (and I decry this that much) and resort to doing nothing but muster contrived efforts to exhibit fake smiles and a faux mettle to settle all that needs be done. Eventually, I lose strength to carry on my duties, I lie low against the heaps of work piling up my desk. Then, in a snap of a finger, I begin thinking about how I should fling myself outside the window sill from the third floor of our building in order to end it all. Yes, it is too much to bear; and by not keeping in touch with time makes it even worse.
Now repeat this phenomenon for countless moments and days ahead, one can grow tired of all these. Not for once have I wished that I would dwell in this state for longer periods of time; nonetheless, the depression forces itself upon you until you give way to its whims. It clouds your intellect, and feeds you with a form of self-degradation that inhibits you from thinking, even that of being in one’s rightful recollection of things. Combining its uncanny way of deporting you into oblivion and work-related stress, it could be a perfect strategy towards destruction; and with this is the salient reality to which a depressive person HAS TO make his or her way out into the real world while dealing with intense bouts of lows, chronic at most times. Moreover, depression does not readily dissipate as it makes its way into the person and sucks into it like a leech, making the individual suffer even more. And to talk about engaging in work while ensconced between the have-tos as against the backdrop of a debilitating illness makes the reality of a working person enduring the said condition even more agonizing. To wit, if I should recall my own experiences, it is precisely the reason why at times I consider myself unfit to work. Not because I do not want to, but that I cannot. I feel like this wretched piece of log that needs to bear tortuous conditions from the elements, drying up both its exterior and interior until nothing is left. This is what a fusion of both work and depression makes me become, and it is that unimaginable on how one could actually stand on his or her toes above all else and tower over frustrations.
With all these being said, depression and work is not alright. Nonetheless, it is one of dispute: should a person work while depressed, or is one capable of doing so? (Oh, of course I know all about high-functioning depression.) But as what most people would remark, it is a matter of triumphing over diverse tribulations. Depression is one great tempest, and the daily grind does not alleviate nor assuage it so. However, whether I lose track of time or not, or that I may look foolish enough blankly staring into space because of a certain incapability to keep tabs on tasks, depression makes me think I cannot do anything. Of course I can, and I need to understand further that the illness does not define me.