Depressed. It has been so long that I have not been so depressed. I don´t want to do anything. I don´t want to bathe, to brush my teeth, to move. to look out the window. I go to work but do what I can to work from home, but productivity is low. Not that I do anything. I just remain doing nothing, motionless, numb.
I don´t want to look at myself in the mirror, even though I splay some concealer on the circles around my eyes on my way to work. I lost interest in masturbation, and even in shopping, cause nothing looks good, things are interesting until I wear them: then it is like they are dipped in a barrel of shit.
I could not go to work today, but I have to work on a presentation, so that´s something I can do from home. Only I stare at the screen and ideas escape, or they are all there but seem dull, repetitive.
My hands are not mine, my face is not mine, my pussy is not mine, they all feel alien to me, I can feel no pleasure whatsoever, in fact, I can´t feel a thing: no joy, no pain. Just an awful loneliness, as if the world was a shell and I was floating in the void.
I write this in an attempt to wake up, to write to myself, perhaps. Later I´ll call my shrink, the rational part of me knows it is time for an intervention and I have no one. Yes, the old lady who works here boasts a caregiver and extended family attitude but she is neither: most of the time I am the one who cares for her. As I care for my son, as I had cared for myself all my life.
The family reunion last Saturday seems to have made things worse, I suppose. My sister fighting for my fathers crumbs of attention, my cousins all have real parents despite the hundreds shortcomings of my aunt and uncles. I am the orphan with living parents. How often in my life I wish I had been aborted? My life would have never been, nothing to feel, to miss… my son´s intuitive reading of Schoppenhauer and Nietzche is spot on: we are condemned to exist. The way out with some resemblance of agency is suicide.
Blame it on PMS, or in the general political or economical crisis, blame it on my lack of money or on how badly I miss my son (he is at his father´s), blame it on me... only on me. I carry the burden of my existence, and I bend under its weight,
I pet myself (I miss my grandmother running her fingers through my hair, singing some funny child´s tune) and whisper to myself: it is a passing phase, it will go away… don´t be afraid, it might come back, as always, but it will go away again… don´t let yourself go with it. Can´t help crying though… tearless and mute.