:: :: drying paint :: ::
I’m afraid that my depression is starting to wear out its welcome on this blog. I worry that I’m driving you away at worst, boring you to death at best. I don’t want to write about it all the time, but I just can’t help it. It is me right now. It’s inside my fingers. It spills out onto the keyboard just like it spills out onto the pages of my journal.
It’s making me boring, even to myself.
Yesterday, Evan and I had a playdate with our good friends with whom we’ve spent lots of time before. We had planned to take the kids swimming at the baby pool but rain kept us away and found us looking for something else to do. I felt bad trading voicemail with my friend in the morning as we tried to figure out our plans because she’d recommend something in her message and I’d call her back and be like, Enh…
I’m afraid I was no more interesting once Evan and I got to her house. I felt like a monkey who’s been raised by chimps, suddenly released back into the monkey world. Everything sort of looked familiar and I could sort of understand my friend’s words, and even manage to communicate some, but it seemed slightly foreign and very hard.
It’s hard because I know I need to be around people right now — I need the social interaction — but I feel bad inflicting my mute and awkward self on people. Hi! Can I come over and stare into the middle distance at your house while you try to carry on 3/4 of a conversation?
Right now, dead flies are more interesting than I am. The girl I met once who said, completely seriously, that she thought she was getting drunk on the water she was drinking is more interesting than me in my current state. Watching an episode of Law and Order that you’ve already seen — twice! — is more interesting than spending an hour with me.
The table of consanguinity, a skinny person complaining about being fat, your niece’s knock-knock jokes and your uncle’s over-told story about how he once almost got to meet Frankie Valli, these things are all more interesting than me. Watching slides of your grandparents’ trip to Colonial Williamsburg — yes even that — is more interesting than me right now.
I’m wordless. I’m mute. I’m spacey.
People ask, How are you? and instead of OK or Fine the first thing that comes to mind is Not Applicable. I am none of the above. None of the standard responses fits. I guess this explains why I find actual conversations so challenging… I can’t even manage the world’s easiest question.
Well, in all fairness, How are you? is probably not the easiest question in the world. Do you want some warm chocolate chip cookies? is the easiest question in the world.
And the answer to THAT is Yes. Thank you.
