When I write about depression, I don't mean sadness. There have been times in my life when sadness was an element of my depression, but it was never the whole thing. And at the moment, sadness plays almost no part in my depression.
When I'm depressed, I don't want to leave the house. I don't want to spend much time with friends. I certainly don't want to socialize in groups. The willowy and ethereal Buddhist woman left a voice mail message for me last week; I haven't called her back. Now that's depressed.
Paperwork and other mind-numbing repetitive tasks get put off, even more so than usual.
My depression used to be made worse by seeing other people around me who seemed happy and enjoying life. Over the past few years, though, I've come to believe most people are no happier than I am. Mostly, they're running frantically from distraction to distraction, trying to avoid dealing with the essential meaninglessness of their lives.
I've mentioned previously the handful of friends who keep themselves in a near-constant state of emotional upheaval and turmoil because it makes them feel 'alive.'
Once I realized these people were no happier than I was, and sometimes less happy, being depressed didn't bother me as much.
When I was a kid, I used to enjoy sitting in a drainage pipe/culvert that ran beneath a street near my house. It was usually dry, or perhaps had just a trickle of water. It was cool and dark. I could hear sounds from the street, but they were distant and muffled. That's how my depression feels – a cool, dark place where I acn be alone.
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