I've been doing a lot thinking about things, and stuff, lately. You know, the super fun attempt at self-actualization phase of life that pops up into ones consciousness whenever there happens to be a lull in the all-consuming burden of living, or as I like to call it: just-trying-to-make-it-through-one-more-fucking-day-without-going-completely-nuts-and-taking-all-you-fuckers-down-with-me-itis. When I was younger, self-psychology was one of my top priorities, but I haven't had the space in my brain to be able to really do any reflecting or analyzing in a long time. Don't judge me just yet, Judgey McJudgeington, because I've got some awesome excuses:
I married young and we starting makin' babies almost immediately (and by "makin' babies", I don't mean 'makin' babies! Woooo!', I mean a sperm + an egg = a tiny human nine months later). We bought a house when we probably shouldn't have, seeming as we didn't have any money to put down and the mortgage payment was/is almost half our monthly take home pay. We've been juggling these kinds of metaphorical shit bags for years, watching the bottoms getting soggier and soggier, our eyes growing larger with terror after each sloppy, juicy (but for some reason sweet-smelling) toss is catapulted between the two of us. Oh, and did I mention that my dad was sick for three years and died recently? Yeah, there has been little time for spiritual treks through the ego-tundra with my inner child.
But things have settled down a bit in recent months, or maybe I've reached my limit of hard times and don't give a shit anymore. Either way, it seems like I've had more solitary thinking times lately, and I'm glad. I feel like I've been separated from myself for so long that I don't know who this stressed out, out-of-shape, old person even is. We've been getting reacquainted more lately, and I kind of hate this fat, slovenly, grumpy, slightly sweaty person. But curiously enough, this discovery has made me want to do the opposite of what I usually do, which is to go to McDonald's, consume enough calories to give a small elephant a heart attack and then take a long and gurgly nap. Instead, it's made me feel some sort of determined feeling. Almost like a desire to figure out what the fuck my problem is. It's weird, I know. I'm not entirely sure why this is happening, but I'm just gonna roll with it for now. Which brings me to my original topic, procrastination. I've been trying to figure out why I do it to the point of my own detriment, and how I can stop (or start, I guess).
Maybe I procrastinate because I'm depressed. I've had depression 'issues' for almost half my life. I've been on meds on and off for a long time, this latest on-stretch, six years, being the longest. But maybe I'm depressed because I procrastinate. Depression is truly a mind fuck; it's impossible to tell what is an actual chemical imbalance and what is you just talking yourself out of shit. What part of my depression is an actual, real illness that requires medication, and what part is me using my depression as a crutch to keep myself down in this deep, rat-infested sad-pit? Humans are remarkable in their ability to adapt, and I, being such a human, am no different, so after a while the rats became my friends, the pit didn't seem quite as dank and dreary, sunshine made my eyes burn, and my muscles atrophied, so why would I ever want to leave? Maybe the meds have been doing their job all along, but my sad-pit just got a satelitte hookup.
I had a therapist scold me once when I confessed to missing doses sometimes. "You wouldn't have issues with taking cancer medicine if you had cancer," he said. "Having depression and taking your anti-depressants is no different."
But it IS different. Mainly, unlike cancer, there is no clear resolution with most mental illnesses. If you have cancer, you go through terrible, painful treatments, and it either cures you and you don't have cancer anymore, or they don't and you die. I'm certainly not intending to trivialize this horrible disease, or the many people who suffer with so much pain and literal life-or-death situations, I'm just trying to show that depression is not like cancer (And yes, I'm aware that sometimes cancer can go into remission and/or reoccur, but I didn't mention that because it would have muddled the point I was trying to make, so just shut your smarty-pants mouth!).
Depression is messy, tricky and cruel. Some people do use it as an excuse to live a life of unaccountability. Some people, like me, worry that they may be using it as such an excuse and agonize over the real reason for their lack of energy and motivational-impairment. We worry that it may be 'all in our heads'. But technically, it IS all in my head, isn't it? Chicken or the egg? Nature or Nurture? Chemical imbalances or laziness? These are the things I wonder about while I'm not cleaning my house or not paying my bills or, every once in a while, questioning the perpetuation of my very existence.
See, this is why I try so very hard to be casual and pithy. It helps prevent this sad-sack in me from taking over. So for the lack of hilarity that I'm sure you've experienced with the other posts so far, I apologize. On the other hand, if this blog is going to be about whatever my brain tells my fingers to crank out, then I suppose sometimes it's going to get a little dark.
P.S. I've already started my next post and it's about cartoons, so that'll much more un-sadish. Stay tooned! Get it?! Tooned?! hyuk, hyuk, hyuk! I'm back, baby!