One of the more infuriating aspects of depression in all its varying forms is the complete inability to accurately express in words...at least words within the bounds of the English language...how I am feeling. This lack also varies depending on where I am on the emotional scale; if I am deep in depression I don't have the cognitive energy to put the blackness into words, or, I have the words and images I could describe, but lack the kinesthetic energy to put them down...if I have the vitality of normal life, I have the language to describe just how depression feels, but the words I would use seem, to my exuberant, enthusiastic mind, to be overexaggerating...it's not really that bad, I didn't really feel that gutted.
This paradox comes into play when communicating with others, in particular my supplier..er, psychiatrist. When I'm normal, trying to describe the hell I was in last week or last night even, feels like lying; I'm waiting for the good doctor to accuse me of angling for more meds. And I usually never see him when I'm depressed; my appointments are always around the noon hour so that my lunch break will cover it.
If I see anyone when I'm depressed, which I usually don't, I auto-mask with a smile and meaningless obsfucating chatter. For some reason I feel an overwhelming need to both protect my raw brain and to prevent it from oozing on to others. I don't want to see them shy away or watch them avert the conversation.
On a random note: It took me three days to write this thing...not because of any sort of agonizing over what to say but due to the insanely hectic breakneck pace of my schedule as of late. But that is for another post.
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