Depression Stops The Movement

Depression is what has stopped my writing. It has taken me down, beaten me into submission. If every time you went to write a post and someone said, "Don't bother. No one will read it. Or if they do, they won't like it. They won't say anything. Of course, this means your writing sucks. Otherwise people would care. So, don't even bother. Give up. Erase everything you have written and go on with your pathetic life, you loser," would you feel like writing? I cannot seem to stop listening. I hear that voice and I start hearing the voices of others who betrayed me, who made me wrong and not good enough and just a complaining whining baby of a human. I begin to cry, my chest tightens, and I wonder why I am alive. Writing loses it's vitality and worth when I become nothing. It usually happens when I want to write about my depression, or my thoughts about life, God, religion...

Just today I read an inspiring post that said "Stop complaining and get on with your life." By inspiring, I mean it inspired me to have violent thoughts of attacking the people that think writing such words will retrieve anyone from the darkness. But, apparently, it works for some. The post received four likes on facebook. Four people with depression thought, "Hey, I really should be more positive." Yeah, first step to another downward spiral is to expect our depressed minds to function like a healthy person's mind.

Yet, that is what the healthy people convince themselves. All she needs is to get a job, get a car, get a life, stop worrying, stop being depressed, start socializing, and she'll be alright. Hahaha. Getting a job, what would that entail, oh, I don't know, fighting Avoidant Personality Disorder, social anxiety, depression, generalized anxiety, and specific phobias, OCD... sounds easy. Not. It means, "Cassie, all you have to do to be happy is to stop being yourself." Great plan. Afterall, I AM worthless, useless and pathetic. I'm no good for anything. I really should be someone else. Then I'd fit right in. Lovely robot of a human being. Rewire me, and I hope you are happy with the results of your programming.

Otherwise, why couldn't a support group actually support the growing of a rich and deep human being? Why couldn't family and friends help find a niche for this idiosyncratic soul? One book I read described a role that a person as sensitive as I used to play in times gone by. That was the role of advisor. The one who stood removed from the battles and watched, contemplated, made connections, and could advise from this position wiser ways of living.

I do not function under pressure or performance. I am often slow to move. I found enjoyment in sweeping or setting tables. They were sacred acts. Then people entered, and humans destroyed the temple in which I worked. They cluttered the corners with rules, and the ceiling with expectations, they muddied the floor with hurry, and they smashed the tables of peace. No one has lead me to another sacred space. They are all ruined. I am waiting for a place to call home. I am waiting for my vocation. And my life.