Ever felt like eating is a chore? That’s where I am these days. I quite literally got bored of eating in the middle of dinner a couple nights ago.
The craziest thing was that I was still hungry–I just was tired of the maddening, nauseating sounds of chewing and slurpy drinking, tired of feeling my permanently clenched jaw muscles aching as they worked, and tired of dealing with the sharp edges of overly crunchy food poking at my gums and lips. (We’re talking crunchy like chips/crisps.). It all suddenly felt like it required an enormous effort to continue feeding myself when all it was doing was making me irrationally angry and somehow empty.
So I just quit. I wrapped up my food with the one remaining sh*t I had left to give, and lay in bed vaguely hungry and headachy for four more hours…until my blood sugar level sharply reminded me if I didn’t eat more soon, I was going to pass out.
I wish I could say this has been an isolated incident, but it’s been this way more of my life than not. This latest bout is probably spurred on by dad’s illness, which I feel powerless to help with much and which reminds me too much of what mom went through before she died…but it’s not all external, not all explainable. And how am I supposed to tell anybody else what this is like if I don’t understand it well myself?
It’s odd, I can stand outside myself in certain moments and recognize “this is depression again.” But when I’m having to live through it, slog through each day minute by stupid maddening minute, it’s like living my life in a trash compactor, the walls coming ever closer each day like that scene in Star Wars: A New Hope. My life is getting away from me so fast, and yet I can’t even enjoy anything anymore. Even existing with meals that are more like light, preprocessed snacks, existing without expending nonexistent energy on cooking or bathing or fresh clothes, feels like fighting an interminably long siege. I’m all out of ammo and the enemy has stormed the gate.
I don’t really want to die yet though, which is good–I’ve been suicidal before and I know not to let it get that bad again. This time, it’s just like “I don’t want any of this life anymore. I don’t want to have to fight like this just to appear normal. No one normal has to claw up the side of a mountain every day just to be passable. I am sick of it and I want to be myself again.” I’m tired of the ache all over, the ache inside.
I hope to get help soon, but I’m still snowed in from all this garbage weather we’ve had and can’t get out to go to any appointments. (Side note: I HATE snow and ice!). Hopefully soon we’ll have enough melt off out here in the woods that I can go outside without falling and hurting myself again. Then I can think about calling for an appointment, maybe finding a primary care physician who won’t treat me poorly because I’m fat. Maybe it’s time to try meds since behavioral therapy hasn’t really headed this off.
I want to get better. I really do. I just wish it didn’t take a monumental effort on my part to just look like I’m barely trying. I wish my greatest efforts weren’t judged by those who are trying to help me as “not enough.” That’s been the most discouraging thing of all.