An Honest Timeline of My Depression
This piece was written by Kendra Syrdal, a Thought Catalog contributor.
I’m awake and can’t tell if I’m hungover or just waking up. There’s a little ache behind my eyes that is basically just a part of me at this point. I lay face down into my pillow aimlessly grasping for my phone and trying to forget whatever dream involving whatever ex had been playing through my head.
I’m on the treadmill. Not really walking, not really running. Just sort of jogging at a pace that would definitely render me dead in a horror movie. There’s nothing playing through my earbuds because the idea of music is honestly annoying.
I’m sitting on the floor of my bathroom post-run, pissed at everything.
I’m just standing in the shower, remembering that summer when Greg and I sang karaoke every weekend at a dive bar in Lakeside. My then-whatever-boyfriend’s grandma would buy us Barcardi and Diet Coke’s and sway along to whatever song we were belting out. She told me I sounded like Carrie Underwood. I miss her sometimes.
I let my dog out. While she’s peeing and smelling and living and laughing and loving I remember that I love her and that she’s one of the reasons why even the days like today where all I want to do is lay on the bathroom floor are better than the days before I had her.
I’m in bed, bundled under three blankets and still shaking even though it’s not that cold, trying to convince myself to get some work done.
I answer a few Slacks. I sound more annoyed than I am. I’m probably more short than I should be. At this point I’m just indifferent.
Maybe coffee would make it better…
The barista I see every morning asked me if I was feeling OK. I lied and said “just tired.”
The cold brew I got has left condensation all over my stove and I’ve had maybe three sips and gotten zero work done because all I can do is continually refresh Instagram hoping I see something that will spark inspiration to either write something or talk to someone. Neither has happened.
Should I order lunch? Do I even want lunch?
I aimlessly eat shredded cheese out of the bag in front of the fridge while standing. Then, I pull an avocado out of the fridge with the intention of eating it on a rice cake.
I walk my dog around the block. I roll my eyes like I’m annoyed but really, I’m quietly thankful that she actually gets me out of the house and moving and make a note to remember that walking her for a mile or so feels pretty good.
How have I been watching enough “Friends” that I’ve gotten through over half a season today? Has it seriously been playing all day? Do I even like “Friends” that much?
I publish an article. I feel really shitty about the lack of effort I put into choosing a photo for this girl’s piece. She’s probably going to be really excited about seeing her words online for (maybe? probably?) one of the first times and I barely spent a good 30 seconds before choosing a photo of a girl with her back turned to the camera overlooking the ocean. I’m terrible. I’m terrible at my job. I’m worthless. I’m so replaceable it’s not even funny. I’m fooling everyone into thinking I’m some standout, internet boss bitch but in reality, I’m garbage. I’m coasting. I’m going to end up back in North Dakota probably like, refilling the popcorn bowls at The Ground Round and being a cautionary tale that the Jenna’s and the Sara’s tell their children.
I start to edit another article, maybe this won’t be so bad.
How did it take me almost an hour to do that? I really am terrible at this. Ground Round here I come.
I think maybe I should just take a nap. I’ll just hit, “Yes for the love of God I’m still watching” and doze off to the sounds of Ross trying to date women who aren’t Rachel for a bit.
I lay on my couch staring at the ceiling and realize how much I’ve fucked up my cuticles today while “watching” (aka: staring at and not comprehending) Netflix. My right pointer finger is shredded, there’s blood stains on the inner sides of both my thumbs. My left middle finger didn’t stand a chance. And even though retrospectively I know how bad this is, there I am, picking away at scabs on the sides of my arms. Habitually, instinctually, impulsively.
I let my dog out again. She barks at a child. I don’t apologize.
I say to myself, “No drinking tonight!”
I find the avocado I never ate. I still don’t eat it.
I’m being poured a glass of red wine and turning down every offer to go out tonight.
I start writing this – whatever it is.
I’m still not done with this but I’m two glasses deep and I’m really regretting my choice to not really eat today. But not enough to order a sandwich.
A group of happy, laughing, probably Microsoft-employeed dudes come into the wine bar where I’m working. They quip something about “too many Brians!” and quote Aziz Ansari and put on fake British accents when choosing a wine and I wonder what it’s like to be so blissfully unaware.
I’m back in bed. I should wash off my makeup. I use a Burt’s Bees wipe instead.
I’m wide awake. I’m at a loss for why I feel as empty as I do. I have every reason to be exponentially happy. Every reason to like, shout from the roof tops that it does in fact get better! But… does it? Is that just something we try to convince ourselves? Maybe it doesn’t get better your bank account just gets bigger? Or maybe there are just better people around you but you still feel like shit? I don’t know.
Still awake. Still contemplating.
Still awake. Still here. And I still don’t know why I’m depressed.
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Thinkstock photo via megaflopp