Moving House

I moved rooms in my house. A couple of months ago. So basically I have taken claim of two rooms. If a guest decided to come over and stay for the night, they would be sadly bedless. So today my mother wanted me to clear out my shit from the room and place them into piles of Donation, Trash and Keep. Mind you, we will most likely be moving to a smaller condo (not that we have a large house…just a large one for only two people. So much useless crap.) so it would be illogical for me to keep two roomfuls of stuff. In my “old” room, I left all of the items I had no idea what to do with: old notebooks and things that should make me nostalgic if I was a regular human being.
So I was sitting there trying to sift through this…wonderland of shit. And I realized I could probably dispose of all of it without a problem. Most of the things I wanted to say were for my sanity’s sake. Most of the items usually meant to make someone nostalgic just looked like other pieces of junk to me. I didn’t want my yearbook, truth be told. I was ready to just tell my mother, “We should just trash it all. Throw it all out. Quickly.” But instead I went though each piece of, let’s face it, crap, and decided if it was worthy of a space in my new room or even a new new room, in a new house. Someday, “I wish to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life…and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” Mind you, Thoreau went into the woods to discover this and, although the woods he went into are very close to me, I will not be doing this. The outdoors appeal to me in idea but not execution, if that makes sense. But I would like to get rid of all of the things I find t be excess, which would take a lot of discipline. But, back to the title of this post, I think it would be easiest to get rid of only the essentials when depressed because when you are depressed, you really don’t care about the extra. At least, I don’t. But, you must also be careful because when a depressed person starts giving away his or her shit it may mean he or she is suicidal. So don’t be giving away your things when you are suicidal, just depressed enough. I figure, if you are unfortunate enough to be given this challenge, you may as well use it to your advantage as much as possible.
Ok, I’M ABOUT TO GET REALLY SERIOUS ON YOU. So don’t keep reading if you don’t want that.

A Bedtime Story

I can’t remember most of the books my parents used to read me to sleep. But I know they did it and I know they know they did it. Unfortunately I have passed the age where it is acceptable (or comfortable) for my mother or father to read me to sleep. I must do that on my own now.  And that can be scary. Because sometimes all you want is someone to care enough to sit by your bedside until you have drifted off into a different world.

for reference they read me this one.

The night used to be a comforting place to me. I have this fantasy every so often of a time when I stayed up all night and at about 4am went to go read by a window. Everything was so quiet and peaceful it just filled me with this warmth. It was, for lack of a better word, magical. Now, that may sound cheesy but I believe every word I just typed.

There has been a change since the days I would stay up until 4 to read. I have found myself increasingly more afraid of the night. A friend recently asked me to tell him a story. I told him this one (note: story has been edited slightly, just to be more readable. Hey, I’m doing this for you, people!):

Night used to be my favorite. I may have even, at one time, considered myself a “night owl.” But now I’m afraid of the night. Not of the dark or anything but of never being able to fall asleep and escape the boring life I have built for myself. Sleep is the reprieve I get from life but when it gets to be 10 or 11 it already seems like it’s too late. It seems like I will never be able to fall asleep again. Dramatic, but I just can’t figure out how to get through. I self soothe but still there is this fear in my mind that it won’t work. It won’t work this time. Everything will be ruined. But what is everything? Another day? I don’t do anything with my days anyway. And thinking about that just sends me into a spiral of sickening depression.

A sad story, I think. But he knows my troubles and told me I was a damn good writer. Which really meant something to me. As much as I am told I am a great writer one more compliment can’t hurt. But also, at times, I will find myself doubting my talents–my strengths. And strengths are very difficult to find when battling depression. It’s night again. I will battle my fears once again. And tomorrow I will get up, victorious or not, knowing that I am alive and in this moment everything is okay.

Because even as I reread that story I don’t think it was very good. I don’t think it was written as well or as beautifully as I wanted it to be. I just feel silly and like a girl who thinks she can do something she cannot.

Procrastination?

I don’t want to write this paper.

And I couldn’t tell you if it’s because I am procrastinating and don’t care enough or if it’s the depression I am surely slipping into that sucks all my energy for everything. I don’t want to write about this. I don’t want to do anything. I want to cry and sleep and die. But I have been so trained to know where my suicidal thoughts get me that I am in disbelief that I am having them. So I am living in a state where I am denying all of the awful thoughts that run through my head, which creates a passionate hatred for myself, which zaps up all my energy.

I don’t even know how to write anything worth writing because my mind is so overwhelmed by all the thoughts swimming through. I think I’m in love with someone who obviously doesn’t like me in that way and he is the only one I want to talk to about how much I am struggling but I also want distance. I didn’t talk about how scared I am of my mind during group today because I decided it wasn’t important enough; even though it was probably one of the most important things I would ever talk about. I should email my teacher about my inability to write this paper because she will probably understand but I am so scared I have no real reason why I can’t write this paper and if I can’t write this paper than maybe I should be in a hospital.

I don’t know what thoughts are mine and what thoughts are the one my depression has planted in my head.

I don’t want to write this paper.