Oh sweet relief! I have become better at letting go of the distressing feeling of remorse. I can fairly quickly ease my self-hatred. I am moving forward.
The days gone by have been entirely different. Covered by negative energy, I haven’t had so much fun and laughter in ages. I haven’t felt more appreciated by others or more satisfied with myself than I have these last couple of weeks.
It was good to sleep. The anxiety is gone for now, but the depression is here. Though I do feel anxiety every time I think about going back to work. It feels unbearable that life is so difficult for me… And others who are troubled, of course. I know I’m not the only one to feel this way. I still think about suicide often. And sometimes I just wish I could be hospitalized again. Lately more than usual. I would be looked after and I could hide from the world. I wouldn’t have to lead a life. I know there are happy moments but I hate those as well. Because I know I’ll be depressed again; and even though I enjoy them while they are there, I despise them in times like these. I hate myself for being happy. For letting myself feel joy. Every bad thing that happens I hate myself for. So much self-hatred. Even now I know this is a message to nobody; there is no receiver at the other end. So my words will echo empty and I’ll keep counting down the minutes of my loneliness.
I’m overflown with the feeling of hopelessness. Suddenly I see no future in myself. I give up constantly. Why? I don’t understand why I have this helplessness in me. I could do everything and anything once. So may possibilities, so many choices. Now I feel like nothing. Like I’ve lost in life. I’m just no good…
I’ve become so strong. But still I feel so weak. Maybe I’ll become even stronger, maybe life will get even better. I just can’t help but be afraid that these things will never happen. I’m so afraid and still depressed. Can I not be satisfied? Do I not have the willpower?
All this confusion. Why am I with this person? Better to be with someone than to be alone, I guess. We’re not even really together. And dreams don’t come true. Except maybe with Levin. Or maybe I just made them come true with him. I want to skip forward to a time where I’m not confused. Where I have a purpose. A person I love. Who loves me. A memory to keep forever. Strength built from one another. A family. Then I’ll stay there as long as possible. Maybe I’ll fast forward to yet another place in my life where I’m at rest and have a smile on my face. Will there be any place I would want to stay? ‘Cause finally, after experiencing those short happy moments… I can reach the end. Where no worries are found, no doubts, no unknowns. Just the moment where you let go.
Once in a while I remember her soft skin and our kisses. It’s a secret though, because it’s all in the past. It was a different intimacy than I’ve ever experienced with any other – with any men. It was so gentle and equal. Even if we fought like no other, were confused about it all, were frustrated and inexperienced, it was still special. Because it was so different, foreign, and new to us both. It built up from somewhere unknown – that was the beauty. Neither of us knew what we were doing. So many tears were spilled, so much spite thrown at the other… I still feel the specks of passion in us and the sense of affection towards her. I still look at her with curiosity and see her wonder.
Longing for a better ending, for a better now, frightful of our lost future, I do accept the turn of events. The whole memory is unclear; I’ve forgotten all the whys, hows, and whos. But I clearly remember that soft skin and her kiss.
“If left to herself, she would have eaten nothing at all and would have gradually starved to death. It was extraordinarily difficult ever to get her to eat enough to keep her strong and well. Pervading her insanity generally there was always a sense of some guilt, the origin and exact nature of which I could never discover; but it was attached in some peculiar way particularly to food and eating. In the early acute, suicidal stage of the depression, she would sit for hours overwhelmed with hopeless melancholia, silent, making no response to anything said to her. When the time for a meal came, she would pay no attention whatsoever to the plate of food put before her. I could usually induce her to eat a certain amount, but it was a terrible process. Every meal took an hour or two; I had to sit by her side, put a spoon or fork in her hand, and every now and again ask her very quietly to eat and at the same time touch her arm or hand. Every five minutes or so she might automatically eat a spoonful.“
– A description of Virginia Woolf’s depression, from Leonard Woolf’s diary (Virginia Woolf: 1882-1941)
With gratitude to The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon
Hope Contagium 