My husband once called me “a whirlwind of social awkwardness, daddy issues, and bouts of severe depression.”
He’s right, and I spend a lot of time thinking about myself. I try to figure out my brain, I fill journals and paint pictures, analyze my movements, trying to figure out the way my brain works.
The depression always comes along the same way, sooner or later. Nothing really stops it.
STEP ONE: Insomnia. Sleep eludes me. I can manage a couple hours a night before my brain snaps awake. If I try to lull myself back to sleep, my brain punishes me by incessantly thinking about past embarrassments, any small humiliation from childhood that still makes me blush.
ME: GO TO SLEEP. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, BRAIN?
BRAIN: You threw up in front of everyone in first grade.
BRAIN: You watched American Pie with your grandfather.
BRAIN: Remember when you walked in on your parents having sex? Naked on the floor?
STEP TWO: I stop caring about personal hygiene Showering and brushing my teeth go from “everyday” activities to “as needed” activities. Leg shaving and eyebrow plucking stop altogether. Makeup, the hair dryer, perfume, all sit untouched.
STEP THREE: I stop doing things. I manage work, but that’s it. I don’t leave the house otherwise, and I don’t change out of my pajamas for reasons not work-related. I spend my time in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to sad bastard music. I cover the windows so I don’t have to deal with sunlight. Sometimes this is where my husband notices, and he tries to drag me outside.
TIM: Wanna go to the movies?
ME: No, I’m busy listening to this mixed CD of Death Cab and Bright Eyes songs I burned when I was sixteen. This is what I do now.
STEP FOUR: Vodka and sleeping pills become an acceptable substitute for dinner.
STEP FIVE: Coma. At least, as close to a coma as one can get while still making a living.
And here I am. But today, I had a new thought: that all this is unnecessary. It just smacked me in the face, so obvious that I can’t believe I never realized it before. I don’t have to walk around in a coma if I don’t want to. I don’t have to self-medicate. I don’t have to be miserable, I don’t have to be happy. I don’t have to be anything, because I am nothing. I am nothing. I have nothing to say. Nothing I do really means anything. And it’s liberating. The death I see at work. My love for my husband. Myself. It’s all nothing.
The nothingness will help me. I am the nothingness.
So, like everyone else with nothing to say, I decided to start a blog.
I do read blogs. Maybe I’ll start commenting on other blogs. Here goes nothing.