I am still floundering in a yucky little (well, understatement) pit of depression. Go me! I had planned to spend next year in London with my Awesome Shiny Friend (who I see most weeks, and who really cheers me up and keeps me going and is Generally Super) and I have disappointed him. I feel crap about it (understatement). There were a few check-boxes that needed to be ticked for me to guarantee this, which I thought would be easy to guarantee… I assumed I would tick them. I ignored the possibility of failure. Until very recently; now I am accepting the truth of my predicament and I feel awful about it.
1) I needed to have found a job by now – and I have come close but ultimately failed. I have applied for literally hundreds – and had only 4 interviews. I got one job (that was pretty good, pay was alright, was interesting) then curled up and died in a pool of depressed self-hatred, then I got through to training for another – as a salesperson. I am not destined to be a salesperson. I did not cut it. And, I curled up into a pit of depression AND had a massive row with one of my housemates. So now I curl up anytime I have to be in my London-house. So I can’t cook, can’t cope. Can’t even muster anything to do job hunting. I just wallow in my awfulness. Yay. And I have applied for more and more and I just have no hope. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life. I have failed to get another job. I have lost hope, to be honest. I’d be crap at it anyway. It probably wouldn’t pay my rent – I could easily lose it and then have no savings and end up in an even worse predicament, unable to get un-depressed, unable to get a job, unable to go out, unable to survive London life. I am awful. I feel awful. I have truly let my friend down, and I am devastated.
2) I needed to be at least a bit less depressed, so I would a) care about my life b) stick to a job and c) be capable of cooking/cleaning/washing etc to look after myself and go outside and do work and happiness and getting-on-with-life type stuff.
3) I need to have a life plan – one that is based on true, actually-caring-about-life feelings, and doesn’t change from week to week or day by day – one that I can aim for so I have aspirations and ambitions and something to cling to, to get through my depression and keep up life in London and the job and hope and stuff.
I have none of these things. I am just as depressed as ever – and I have less money and I have just wasted nearly nine months of my life in a haze. My only achievement has been the further excavation of my pit of failure; I have disappointed my family, my friend and housemate-to-be and myself. I just don’t see the point anymore. I am not a nice person – I am not capable of finding a job yet also not capable of just wiping myself off this planet and fucking off out of the way. I am just a money and hope-sink, sucking patience and stressing out those around me. I feel lazy but am incapable of doing anything remotely productive.
I wish I could turn the clocks back a year, and get my act together and work hard at revising Chemistry and Maths and becoming prepared for 2nd year Chemistry; the most daunting of subjects to study and the hardest (apparently) year of undergraduate learning ever. Then I could have a life plan (get decent job with epic degree behind me, have a life and nice things, stay in London, be happy, etc) rather than a diminishing hope of somehow caring about my life and becoming better at some point.
I don’t even want to publish this. Another whiney moan from me, the whiney-moaner. A burden. A bore. I dislike the effect my depression has on me (understatement) but I loathe, detest, hate and abhor its impact on those around me. I hate the way I act because of it. I hate needing support. I hate being incapable of doing things. I dislike my thoughts of death and harming myself. Ultimately, I am scared that it is something that won’t ever go away. I just don’t know how to get myself out of this pit of mine. I don’t have the strength or courage to do so. I don’t ever want to fall back in. I am so unhappy, sick to my stomach of myself. Of being me – I’m a nasty whining burden of a heap – and all I have to deal with is some manky brain chemicals. I still have a functional body. A roof over my head. I am fortunate in my priviledged Western lifestyle – I just wish depressed me could Fuck Off and leave me to enjoy, and feel grateful for, this life I have. I only have one chance at life, and I feel as if I have screwed it up already. It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous.
Fuck off depression. I want to get on with my life again.