Same old same old

I don’t have the energy for it. The energy not just to BE happy but to keep it up. The trouble is, every time I try and then stop, it’s like starting over, exactly as it was in the beginning, and sometimes worse, which is hard for people to understand. Especially my mother.

‘But you were doing so well,’ she’ll exclaim again, as though that fact in itself means I’ll now always be better. She sounds just as surprised each time.

I know a few friends would welcome me if I choose to go Out, but I don’t have the energy to try and look nice (impossible; I’m too fat now- what I actually want to do is carve out my offending flesh and render it like tallow- it is repulsive, truly horrible to look at), and to then cope with such self-consciousness that I can barely walk from knowledge of being sniggered at, to then order a drink which I won’t enjoy, and chat. Possibly followed by a brief alcohol-induced remission, then a nasty hangover as a result of that. The mental comedown from that sends me back to bed for days.

A few friends have chosen to forget me, however. I can’t blame them. Depression has made me an arsehole. It took me two years, but a few weeks ago I finally gathered the strength to send a couple of apology letters. I’m not sure what I was expecting – certainly not for them to drop everything and want to talk to me…I wouldn’t want to fucking talk to me so why should they, especially after I isolated myself…maybe a dismissal, or something, but I’ve heard nothing. Which is karma I guess. I gave nothing, and that’s what I get back. It both upsets me and validates my view of myself that I am not worth more, that people don’t have a me-shaped gap in their lives, that I am entirely replaceable and expendable. I wish I hadn’t bothered crying over the stupid letters.

It’s just that occasionally I miss the company of other people. Oh well, it soon passes; the actual reality of seeing anyone who knew me a couple of years ago during my vivacious performing days (I was still depressed, but far more high -functioning), and seeing the pity running across their eyes, is an unendurable thought.

I have to go out more before I can lose weight and feel better, and I have to go out to be able to socialise. But I don’t want to until I’m at least back to where I was – and that feels like it might never happen again. I’m literally putting my own recovery on hold because I haven’t recovered enough to begin my recovery. Welcome to the cycle.

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