This week I have been primarily distressed most of the time; and although I would find it uncomfortable, I still—at times—search and long for it as though a cub to her mother, a chick to a hen. For countless times have I thought that I might have a breakdown of sorts: at work, at home, or wherever a trigger finds me incapacitated to figure out even the most mundane of all things. Nonetheless, I still try my very best not to show it. I might still appear fine, carefree, with a smile on my face as though nothing terrible is happening within. But sometimes, cracks do show up, and people notice; but it is not as that of giving some leeway for them to actually see through the depths of my depressive self. Yes, they may catch glimpses of it from the outside, but none do I deign reveal about what really goes on in this erratic brain of mine (although my poetry can make it explicit in a way).
Anyway, the depressive episodes have been far more volatile this week, encompassing a range of emotions that start from downright choleric to a certain kind of melancholia. Thus being said, I am battling a plethora of sensations that gurgle up deep within me, waiting for a massive explosion. I could not think, nor could I breathe life into words for the most part—writing has become tedious, speaking even. This way, it fuels even more the rancour I have about myself, deep-seated as it is: it seems I have hated everything that spells the self and all its self-inflicted pathos, one that I suffer in myself to endure for the most part. It is as though I am doomed that much to an oblivious state, to kowtow to it, to grovel at its feet, whilst I suffer in a much pained silence. I do not know how much I could still bear the dreariness of the soul, and how the spirit has been inevitably shackled into depression’s tempestuousness.
I practically do not know how to feel and what to feel, in the midst of all these that bind me close to death. It is as if I might want to readily fall into its arms—steadily so until I reach the core of why death continues to thrive in the hearts and minds of those whose lives appear to perpetually dwell in misfortune. It is as if death provides a most uncanny solution to a hapless existence; and with this a more sinister look at how death can invite and potentially beguile. In this is the enigma of sorts: I long to die at most times, yet at diverse occasions as well, I also wish myself to live. However, dying seems all the more a most viable means to address the melancholia—something which I do not understand most fully.
Yet, still, the depression remains. It is all-encompassing, it clouds me in my daily meanderings, whether in work or in my writing. I could not think nor conceptualize. I fumble whenever I talk. Yes, it could be too much, however, I cannot do anything about it. I feel helpless and benighted. I am going down.
Asking for prayers is all I can do so as to alleviate the problems at hand; and I don’t even know if I am heard or could be.