I’m curled up in bed writing this, half bunched beneath the covers with the phone clutched tightly in one hand, knees drawn up and face half pressed into the pillow so I don’t have to see beyond the little glowing screen. I don’t want to see anything else right now.

Sleep occurred in the technical sense but I feel no more refreshed then I did last night. My heart is floating somewhere near the middle of my chest which may sound better than the tight feeling which sometimes constricts it, makes it physically hurt, but this sensation brings with it a different feeling – nauseous and uneasy. Disconnected from the world like some phantom with barely enough strength to exist. The feeling travels all the way down to my gut where its built a nest and settled in the night. A poisonous egg left there to continue slowly making me feel ill and unable to move without fear of making it worse.

My head replays certain words from conversations and scenes which are a mixture of fact and fiction. Except, even though I know which is which, I’m convincing myself on each replay that the scenes I have no way of knowing are true must have happened and so are also fact which feeds the nausea all over again.

I don’t want to get out of this hole. I know I can and I will because that’s what I do – I slap on a mask and grind through the day with a false smile and pretend words, all the while cracking beneath the surface like an old porcelain doll. Then I’ll get home and drink until exhaustion claims me and the cycle starts again.

Sounds funny but I’ve even tried masturbating to help pick up my mood, but while the body was able, the mind was elsewhere. It happened, I came but the experience wasn’t pleasurable and instead all I could picture were moments that made me feel more sick and inadequate.

Now I need a piss and a glass of water but I’m not moving until I absolutely have to, until that alarm goes off telling me I have to work and have to act through the day – an award winning performance, for sure, Best Act For Pretending You’re Not Hurting and Screaming Inside – because dragging myself to do anything other than what I absolutely must is too much effort at the moment.

I think Bernard Black’s choice of words are the most beautiful description of this feeling so I’ll finish with this:

Fuck depression.

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