I don't write much about my depression, mostly because it's, well, depressing. I think that others don't want to be brought down by it, and I don't want to come across as whining.
Another reason I don't write about my depression is because I don't think it's all that interesting. Yes, it consumes me. It is the single most defining characteristic of my life. It's with me all day, every day, and there is nothing that I do that is not in some way diminished by it. But what's there to say about it, especially when the precious energy required to say it could be put to better use?
Things have been particularly tough lately. In addition to the funk and all that goes with it, my depression is keeping me from doing the things I need to do to take care of my diabetes. I'm not exercising. I'm not eating well. I'm skipping medicines.
I know these behaviors will literally kill me, and make me suffer while I live. But even as my eyes continue to deteriorate, my kidneys fail, and I continue to lose sensation in my legs and feet, I lack the motivation to do the right things. The fact that my father lost his leg and his sight to diabetes, and the knowledge that I am accelerating toward that same end should light a fire under me, but it no longer does. It's damn frustrating, and I curse myself for it.
Blogging is my escape, for now. It's increasingly difficult to read, think, or write. But, out of fear, I try to keep my head down and plow ahead until I can find some other addiction to hide behind.
I used to like myself, but now I just feel damaged, and I don't at all like this thing that I've become. I know the fear and insecurity and anger have always been there, but I've been worn so far down that they now lay raw and exposed.
I've known for a while that I won't get better, but as I decline that knowledge gets harder to deal with. Yet that's who I am. That's what I do.