I don't really remember what it felt like to be depressed. I don't get depressed nowadays, not really, because the generic brand Prozac stops my brain soaking up all that precious serotonin too quickly. But I do sometimes get pangs of intense sadness that can last a day or two. Horrible sadness. I'm sure I described it as “sick sad” somewhere sometime. Because that's what it feels like. This terrible heat in my stomach that radiates outward and consumes everything. Maybe it's not sadness. Maybe it's anger. Maybe I'm angry at myself and the whole wide world. I guess that makes sense.
Of course I'm angry at myself. I don't like myself. Sometimes I am exactly the type of person I would hate to hang around with. I avoid life and I make excuses and I have little regard for consequences. Sometimes I like myself. Sometimes I'm funny and I'm nice and I'm honest. Right now I'm indifferent. I'm mad at myself for still being awake at quarter to seven in the morning when I have class at nine. I'm mad at myself but I'm not sure I can blame myself anymore. I don't think it's staying in bed too long during the day and not getting any fresh air.
I'm being good now. Sort of. But my brain is too full of thoughts and plans and wishes to settle down to sleep and detailed dreams of zombies. I'm too concerned with the future – I'm thinking about being home in three weeks and seeing my family and my friends and returning to UL to start new classes. I'm scared though. I'm scared of more change.
Anyway, I'm listening to the Pixies and reading quotes and feeling afraid. Hold me. Or something.