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On the lookout

Writer's picture: CroneCrone

As a result of the depression crash, that I mentioned in yesterday's post, I called my best friend and started crying. He was at work and said, he couldn't do anything. So he started to get angry. As men do when they can't do anything. I said, I don't want you to do anything: I just wanted to hear the voice of someone who loves me. He stopped being angry and started on the line of how I have been worse than this before and got through it. Which is true but doesn't help as depression is outside time.


Then I said, "I want to go home." He said, truthfully, that I always say that when I am low but that no one know what it means and, specifically, if I don't know what I want, then no one can help me.


At the time, I was too bust crying to deal with that, but now that I am not crying, I am looking face to face at the hopelessness of that unknowingness. There is something utterly damning in this. Because I don't know, and, in a sense, I can't. Because there is nothing I want, nowhere I want to be. Being asleep is better than being awake. That is all I can say. Being at work is no worse than being at home. But the level of energy for actually doing anything or going anyway that I don't have to... for even so much as making the decision to do something or go somewhere... I don't possess that energy. And in large part that is because there is no volition.


I realised what it feels like. It feels like the most intense disappointment. That one thought things would be OK, but they are far from OK, and one is not angry or resentful or bitter. No, just so utterly, flatly disappointed.


So, those birds. On the lookout. Maybe, despite the pain, I can retain enough awareness to be on the lookout for something that offers allure. Something that will generate the slightest volition. Something that might be a little better than being asleep.

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