View from the near bottom

Maybe I've reached the limits of what I can blog about. It's all kicking off in my head - but perhaps I shouldn't have tried to type it. I don't think I can explain what I'm going through without trivialising it or misrepresenting it. Everything I wrote yesterday was true, but it's not the whole story, and what I've realised is that, by attempting to articulate what's wrong, it becomes bitesize and measurable, and the gulf between what you've packaged for others' consumption versus the total pus-filled mess that you're feeling inside is too large to cross.

I've tried in the past to explain to friends what I am feeling, and despite their best efforts to empathise or help change my warped, over-negative perspectives, I just end up feeling worse. They look at you with their heads on one side, and I can hear them thinking, 'You don't deserve my sympathy. This is ridiculous, you're absolutely fine, stop complaining!' And I think, 'You're right, you're right, I know you're right, I should be feeling fine,' but inside I'm thinking, 'You ungrateful bitch - you are so lucky but you're wasting your life feeling awful. Pull yourself together.'

I'm trying.

(Yes, yes, I know, trying in both senses - excuse me while I don my custom-designed abdominal support to prevent my sides from taking leave of each other).

In a final attempt to clarify: there's the surface problem, detailed yesterday, i.e. the fairly common what-am-I-doing-here? existential crisis, where I feel unfulfilled and like I'm wasting my life. I do fear failure and I do worry that I should be achieving more with my life - just like a lot of people. But (hopefully unlike the vast majority of you) I also criticise Every Single Thing that I do. Every outfit I wear, every haircut I have, every hobby I'm a part of, every meal I order, my handwriting, my face, my bra size, my feet, my voice (speaking and singing, for different reasons), my intellect, my desires, every boyfriend I go out with, every job I get, every decision I make, the trips I take, the parties I host, the food I cook, the presents I buy, my posture, my time-keeping, my ukulele-playing, my photographs, this blog - none of my achievements are ever, EVER good enough. Every single minute, I am criticising myself and pointing out what I should be doing that would be an improvement on what I'm actually doing.

Write something hilarious? You're still overweight. Make a friend smile? You're still single. Spark the interest of an attractive man? It won't last. Say something intelligent? The gaps in your knowledge are stratospheric, don't feel pleased with yourself for a nanosecond - you are not a contender for anything. I'm left feeling as though everything I touch turns to insignificance and that I have to invent Facebook or cause a food revolution to be justify my place on earth, all the while knowing full well that whatever goals I attain, as soon as I get them, they'll be meaningless too, because nothing I do is ever good enough.

Wherever I go, there I am.

There'd be no point moving to the country - I'd still beat up on myself every waking moment. And sincere thanks to the other commenter who told me to look at the positives. You are 100% right - and I do try, I promise. However, as every depressive knows, one of the worst things about depression is how self-indulgent and guilty we feel for being anything other than slavishly grateful. We know we have strengths, we know how lucky we are, we know that we can walk and talk and live and breathe and that it could be so much worse - but yet we still feel constant mental pain. It's not rational - it's an illness, a curse, a mindset, a plague.

I said to my therapist last night, 'Don't you listen to people like me and just think, SHUT UP?' and she solemnly said, 'I never think that.' And I thought, 'Wow. You're a saint.' Because I think that all the time about myself. Not that I'm a saint. That I should shut up. Every single day I show myself the countless positives about my life and thank my lucky stars that I have a roof over my head and employment and a wonderful family and such gorgeous friends - but underneath it all, there's a voice that looks at everything I do, and says, over and over again, "Jane? Are you listening to me? I have something to say. Are you ready? Here it is. You are a failure."

The good news? As noted in the title, I'm not quite at the bottom, because I still wholeheartedly believe that it's possible to change the habits of a lifetime. The only way is up and I'm pretty confident that I'll get there. It takes a lot of work to confront these things - it's not easy nor particularly pleasant, but with the right combination of therapy, medication, my gorgeous parents and my (as discussed) fantastically fortunate life, I am sure I will get better in time. Bear with me, Faithful. This too shall pass.

Right! That was fun, wasn't it?! I'm off to re-read Dr. Cantopher.