Empty. Useless. Invisible.

invisibleSo there is a lot I want to do and create, but  the truth is, my physical energy just isn’t there so much of the time lately. More truth is that I am in the middle (?) of a depression quite unlike any I’ve had in recent years.

I’ve made a lot of “progress” lately with “it”,  and still I struggle with no apparent energy. With motivation. With fatigue. And that creates a cycle of apathy punctuated by long hours of sleep or even longer hours of insomnia. I want to explain- to give a reason but what reason is there except that I am coping with depression. Again.

Again the days when my soul feels heavy and laden with bone deep fatigue that slumps my shoulders and darkens my eye sockets, giving me the look of a haunted doll. Again are days when getting out of bed feels like a bad-ass, award-winning achievement. Again the days when and I feel empty, useless and invisible.Some of the writing I’m working on rips me wide open, leaving me exposed, exhausted, raw and too tired for much art.

I usually manage to find gratitude and grace everyday when I can think to remember to meditate and speak to my Guiding Lights frustrated by how no matter what I do to find a “cure”, I still never feel really GOOD physically. Chronic lack of energy is like trying to slog around underwater, pushing past currents, battling muck around my ankles.

Some of you will wonder why I don’t talk much about it in our conversations in passing and here’s the thing—what I most need on the fucking tough, trying and desperate days is myself. I need to be bold and dive right into the toughness of the day, feeling it. I need to stay and support the shit out of myself without looking to external sources for what I think I need because I have vowed to never again abandon myself. Ever.

When I write and create, I feel better — when I share and connect, even more so. But what to share? I’ve been toying with writing more about these challenges. My research junkets into neurotransmitters and serotonin and dopamine and being brain fit.  I don’t know where it will go. Maybe it will be boring. Maybe we’ll all learn something. I can’t run. Or hide. Or give up. I’ll stay right here and stick it out. I’ll sit here and move through my sticky hurt, my wicked grief, my passionate pain, and express it no-holds-barred, whether I am creating magical art from my madness or  burrowing under my covers, to sigh, to moan and just hurt.

I’ll be bold and badass and stick around for the transformative, juicy, beautiful, inspired, exactly what I need kind of days.