I got some maybe-good news today; but now, a few hours later, I’m feeling even worse than before. What the …? Oh yeah, I’m depressed.
Let me back up a moment. The maybe-good news could potentially be absolutely-fucking-fantastic news: the man from the insurance company which is processing my income protection claim going back to the last time I was able to hold down a full-time job reckon they’ll actually pay the claim, pending a few routine inquiries. He listed these, and the company’s requirements for whether the claim will be successful or not, and provided they don’t do anything weirdly screwy, I should actually get some money in about a month’s time.
Apart from blowing apart my paranoid delusion that all insurance companies are essentially evil and out to get me, this news should have me bouncing off the walls, right? OK, preparing to perhaps bounce off walls – because insurance companies have, after all, proved time and time again that they are in fact out to get me, and I’m still not confident that the claim will actually be successful.
Instead of celebrating, or feeling mildly happy, or even feeling less stressed, I’m actually far more stressed than I was a few hours ago. Thoughts of SH and That Other Thing keep crowding my mind. I feel completely worthless, hopeless, crushed. I’m so agitated that even my beloved electronic valium (TV) isn’t calming me.
I’m in a bad way.
I think it’s because knowing that the end of all this stress might be in sight, I’ve actually allowed myself to feel the full weight of worry which I usually work so hard to deny. For a short while, I allowed myself to think things like: “I’ll be able to get out of debt! I’ll be able to buy some new clothes! I’ll be able to catch up on all my medical bills!” let alone things like “I won’t have to make difficult decisions between food or petrol!” and even “This money might come through before my car registration is due!”
I let all those thoughts into my mind, but now I’m stuck with them – and the reality that I have to live with their opposites for at least another month, and maybe forever (if the claim fails).
So, back to my original question: what the hell’s wrong with me? Well, sweetling, you suffer from anxiety and depression. This is what your mind does: it takes something nice, something pleasant, and twists it around into something stressful and yucky.
I “joked” with a friend yesterday about wanting a new brain. I wasn’t really joking. I’m tired of this stupid game of hating myself, watching myself think irrational thoughts, not being able to do things … I’m just so tired of it all. Some days I really do just want to curl up and, well, not have to be me any more. I want to claw the skin off my face. I have to stay out of the kitchen, because that’s where the knives are. I can’t go into the laundry, where the bleach lives. This isn’t living. This is cowering inside your own home, inside your own skin, not even watching life go by because you’re too frigging scared of what might happen if things get too real.
Two days ago, I was glorious Diana. This afternoon, I’m barely a filthy slug. I’m not worthy of being alive. I’m not worthy of friendship. I don’t deserve good news, because I can’t even rejoice in it.
Please let this end soon.