I’m irritated. I feel kind of betrayed. But I shouldn’t have expected him to understand my depression. After all, he is the same man that refuses to accept my sexual orientation because he hasn’t seen me pursue women romantically. It was foolish of me to think he would understand. After all, he is the same man that only sees things through his eyes only and refuses to get another opinion.
I don’t want to explain it to him. I know he’s going to find a way to make it about him. I know he’s going to give me the same advice I’ve been getting since I was first diagnosed. The same things that I’ve tried. The same things I gave up on. But in order to keep my sanity while living with him, I must explain it to him eventually.
But where do I even start? I don’t even fully understand it myself. And when do I start? There are so many events that lead up to me going to therapy for the first time and getting diagnosed. And my memory isn’t that great. I’m probably going to have to really rethink some events in my life. And that’s something I’m not sure if I’m prepared for.
I wish I would wake up from this nightmare…
The Sun finally shows itself after days of overcast and scattered storms. It’s finally warm and beautiful. I should have woken up energized but instead, I woke up drained before I even did anything. I didn’t even get out of bed until noon. And that was only because my dad called and asked for me to bring him something from his room down to his idle car.
I took a shower hoping to wash some of this mood off. It manifests with the steam instead of going down the drain like I hoped. I continue to straighten up after getting dressed just so I don’t collapse in the bed like I usually do on these days. Today, perhaps because of the sun, I actually feel stimulated enough to do more things around the house. Like cleaning the stinky fridge. And vacuuming the living room. And actually folding the clothes I washed yesterday.
Yeah. Maybe I’ll do just that.
It’s something we all look for or have looked for at least once in our lives. Some of us might have found it while a good portion of us are still searching. Some say it’s something that comes to you when you least expect it. Others say it’s given to you at birth from a higher power. Some others have said that there is no divine reason for anything and we are simply here to live, reproduce and die.
I am not sure which of these theories I wish to believe. Perhaps I shouldn’t believe in any of them. Perhaps I should stop thinking and search so hard for something so intangible. But growing up with Anxiety and Depression forces me to think long into the night about the meaning of life. I fear that I may be searching for the purpose of my existence for years without any answers.
I know I may be over thinking things. A fatal flaw from existential angst. I can’t help but be envious of those who have found their purpose. I know it didn’t come easy for a lot of them. And I know that I should probably be patient and let it fall in my lap. But there’s something itching for me to find it now. Presumably, my depression weighing me down with thoughts large enough to fill the room and suffocate me until I finally collapse into a restless slumber. At least that’s what it feels like to me.
Then I wake the next morning, or sometimes evening, and think about all the things I must do to be a functioning member of society. And I never do them. Because I don’t believe my purpose it to be a “functioning member of society.” Whatever that means.
Perhaps I will never truly find my purpose for existing. Perhaps it will come later when I least expect it. Perhaps I will find it in my passions; Writing and Art. As soon as I get over the anxiety of being a writer and an artist full time.