Happy Depressed
September 4, 2021 (+/[-]) / 7:02 a.m. / Since my last entry, I have been… happy? But not a positive happy. As in, I’ve been able to talk and nod and laugh at work, but I sense a terrible dread beneath the surface, deep and painful. So, despite feeling happy, I’m giving myself a minus sign, because the happiness seems less natural and more like me buzzing on autopilot.
And even though I’m “happy,” I still have concerning thoughts, specifically about about self-harm. (Note: I have not self-harmed.)
10:18 a.m.
I’m drinking coffee. Slept from eight something at night to nine something in the morning. In truth, it was because I had a sinus headache, though depression did play a role in my need to shut down. Obviously, however, I woke up 7:02, because a dream pulled me from my slumber. In the dream, I saw a cat sinking its teeth into a white rabbit. It wasn’t a nightmare, just… a vicious dream. Is this an omen?
I’m about go pick up my grandmother and spend the day with her. Let’s see if I can put on a happy face.
3:05 p.m.
I’m sitting in Little Chinese with Grandma J. Going shopping with her today was definitely a mood booster. Still, there is a question echoing in mind: What is the point of this? And by “this” I don’t mean a special moment with your grandparent. I mean, this. Life. Everything around us. The world.
I confessed to her that my appointment in Durham on Tuesday is $400. I assured her it goes towards my $750 deductible, and that I may be able to obtain a grant for $500 to cover it, courtesy of Ombuds at the university. I told her it was because of my anxiety — she doesn’t know all of what’s going on. Then again, she doesn’t need to know.
Here’s what my fortune cookie said:
11:30 p.m.
The day ended on a good note. At six o’clock, I wanted to go home and get in bed, but I told J_V in a text that I needed to try and stay active. So I remained at my grandma’s apartment for a little while, talked with my aunt and cousin who came over, and then went home. Right now, I’m playing a video game.
I’ll admit, however, that while I was talking to my aunt, I had a vision of me dying; and as I walked from my grandmother’s apartment to my car, I thought about what it would be like to blast my head off with a shotgun. I’m not going to do this, though, because guns scare me. Besides, pulling a Kurt Cobain is too brutal, too messy, too… I don’t want to think about it.
It’s odd how one minute I can show my cousin a video of a wolf puppy howling for the first time, then envision myself bloody and lifeless. What’s wrong with me? Was this really suicidal ideation, or was it just an intrusive thought? I can’t tell.
