During the time that I was healthy, I don't remember feeling like I was watching myself doing well. I was just doing stuff. I wish I had been smart enough to be aware that I was happy, to record it so I could always remember what it felt like--happy, serene, calm, hopeful, playful, relaxed.
When depression hits those cheerful words don't hold meaning beyond definition. They're just words, like memorizing flowers or types of insects based on photographs. Like looking at photographs of unrecognizable food from a foreign country and being able to recite the names, but having no emotional connection to them, not, "... like I used to eat when I was a kid."
Just words. Words worshiped in our society. Words with descriptions I know to act. Out there, in the world, the facade of those words is really important.
Even when I'm walking the puppies and I am having fun I still carry an odd weight in my chest holding me down and pushing against my tear ducts at once.
I plan my day though. I plan it so that I cannot just stay inside and nap or lie on the couch while TV rolls mindless images into the light.
Mostly it works out.
Today there were times when I really was just glad to be doing what I was doing. Times when I concentrated on my work. And then there's the times that I feel like a rag doll filled with lead shot. It rolls through me when I muster the strength to lift the skin that holds my form.
Where does this come from?