The Worst Day of My Life

     The official worst day of my life was around the time I wrote the entry "Existential Problems." There was extensive derealization and everything became flat and shallow. I fought with it the entire day. I've just recently had a few more of the worst days of my life, though I admit they were marginally less bad. It was visiting my family that did it. I've done it two weekends in a row now. The first was because James and his girlfriend Adair, who, let me tell you, is a Gertrude so attractive I've considered being Claudius, were out of town. The visit was moderately boring but otherwise unremarkable. This most recent weekend was the bad one. I was already having a little trouble Friday, and then arriving at my house to having nothing at all to do and a sticky leather couch to try and sleep on in between my infant nephew's crying jags was just what my spark of anxiety needed to flare into some serious depression.

     Have you ever been depressed, reader? Hush, that was rhetorical. This is my blog. I'm going to wax poetic here and try to describe it to you. It's as if all hope and beauty has gone out of the world. Everything is short, sharp, and brutal. Happiness is an illusion that you were a fool to believe could exist. Nothing can ever be good, there is only pain and horror and badness. That's severe depression, anyways. When it isn't so bad I'm merely incapable of experiencing significant amount of happiness or joy. The best I can hope for is to temporarily content myself with a mindless game, sleep, or alcohol.

     The thoughts which drive me to depression are like a live thing that I wrestle with. It's a demon that squats on my shoulder and yells into my ear, and the effort required to keep my mind away is very much like trying to focus your eyes on a blurry object. The harder you try, the more tired you become, and the more things slip away. I realized last night that I walk extremely quickly (and I am already a fast walker) when I am in these moods. I can tell myself that my heart is racing because I am exerting myself, and not because I am terrified. The constant fleeing is tiring. I suspect it may be having negative effects on my health. I begin to question my mental stability. How much stress can a person take before they begin to act significantly differently? I am giving serious consideration to going on medication, even though I object to it in principle.

     I have arrived at another solution, of a sort. It is at least a thought which can keep the others at bay for a while: I, being a human, am so limited in my faculties and so inherently biased in my judgement that I cannot possibly begin to understand the nature of our universe, time,God, etc. Therefore, it is entirely pointless of me to worry about it. I should concern myself with my existence in my present form, because that is the only form over which I have any control. I know the potency of this thought may fade. Maybe, though, my future self will have forgotten this thought and it will reassure him once again.

     I miss James and Adair so much. They're my best friends, and I only see them on the weekends. I intend to see them this weekend. I think it will make me feel much better.